


Demons, Angels, and Detectives - Whumptober 2020

by biscuits_and_whiskey



Category: Broadchurch, Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Takin' Over the Asylum
Genre: 18th Century, Angst, Assault, Attempt at Humor, Branding, Buried Alive, Claustrophobia, Cults, Damsels in Distress, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Female-Presenting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Friendship, Gen, Hallucinations, Hanging, Heavy Angst, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Isolation, Language, Love Confessions, M/M, Male-Presenting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Male-Presenting Crowley (Good Omens), Medical Inaccuracies, Medieval Medicine, Panic Attacks, Past Torture, Pre-Relationship, Smoking, Sort Of, Stabbing, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Tags Contain Spoilers, Tags May Change, Waterboarding, Whumptober 2020, wing whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:34:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 32
Words: 105,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26755879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biscuits_and_whiskey/pseuds/biscuits_and_whiskey
Summary: A collection of stories for Whumptober 2020. Please mind all tags and warnings.Current: Day 31 - Whipped [Broadchurch]
Relationships: Alec Hardy & Ellie Miller, Alec Hardy & Tess Henchard, Alec Hardy/Ellie Miller, Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale (Good Omens) & Alec Hardy, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 165
Kudos: 146





	1. Chapter-Fandom Index

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> should've made this first but here is a guide to all the chapters and what show they apply to!
> 
> all divied by show, not necessarily chap order w/ related chapters noted together

Broadchurch

_Waterboarding Trilogy_

Chapter 7 - "Self-Employed" ( _Please Stop + No More_ ) [Part 1 of 3]

Chapter 14 - "Confronted" ( _Oxygen Mask_ ) [Part 2 of 3]

Chapter 21 - "Grounding" ( _Comfort_ ) [Part 3 of 3]

_Open Water_

Chapter 17 - "Hallucinations" ( _Hallucinations_ )

_One Shots_

Chapter 3 - "Never An Easy Choice" ( _Collars + Choose Who Dies_ )

Chapter 4 - "Aftershocks" ( _Manhandling_ )

Chapter 5 - "Pine Wood" ( _Buried Alive_ )

Chapter 9 - "Implosion" ( _Isolation_ )

Chapter 11 - "Trail of Blood" ( _Trail of Blood_ )

Chapter 13 - "Hit Reset" ( _Broken Trust + Broken Down_ )

Chapter 19 - "Panic Attacks" ( _Panic Attacks_ )

Chapter 26 - "Eye for an Eye" ( _Ringing Ears_ )

Chapter 27 - "Migraines" ( _Migraines_ )

Chapter 30 - "29" ( _Reluctant Bedrest_ )

Chapter 32 - "Haunted" ( _Whipped_ )

Good Omens

_Medieval Era Omens_

Chapter 2 - "The 14th Century" ( _Hanging_ ) [Part 1 of 2]

Chapter 8 - "Please Rest, My Dear" ( _Carrying_ ) [Part 2 of 2]

  
_Devil's Sacrifice_

Chapter 12 - "Devil's Trap" ( _Defiance + Struggling + Crying_ ) [Part 1 of 2]

Chapter 10 - "Ritual Sacrifice" ( _Ritual Sacrifice_ ) [Part 2 of 2]

  
_Proper_

Chapter 15 - "Proper Angel" ( _Branding_ ) [Part 1 of 2]

Chapter 31 - "Proper Care" ( _Wound Reveal + Ignoring an Injury_ ) [Part 2 of 2]

_  
One Shots_

Chapter 6 - "A Bit Cliché, Don't You Think?" ( _Rescued_ )

Chapter 18 - "Feral" ( _Altered State_ )

Chapter 20 - "Starmaker" ( _Grief_ )

Chapter 22 - "Hypothermia" ( _Hypothermia_ )

Chapter 23 - "Poisoned/Drugged" ( _Poisoned + Drugged_ )

Chapter 25 - "Silenced" ( _Forced Mutism_ )

Chapter 28 - "Earthquakes" ( _Earthquakes_ )

  
Takin' Over The Asylum

  
Chapter 24 - "I'll Sleep Later" ( _Exhaustion + Sleep Deprivation_ )

Chapter 29 - "Mugged" ( _Mugged_ )

  
Cross-Fandom

  
Chapter 16 - "Borrowed Time" ( _Magical Healing_ ) [Broadchurch/Good Omens]


	2. The 14th Century

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of the many reasons Crowley hates the 14th century, this might be in the top ten.
> 
> CW: Hanging, Slight suicidal ideation (intentional discorporation)

The thing about cells is that, for someone without a need for food or water, it gives you plenty of time to think.

  
That’s the best Crowley could conjure as a “bright side” to his situation because, otherwise, this whole thing was nothing short of a cock up.

  
He swallowed, throat parched, and shook against his restraints.

His eyes remained fixed on the small, barred window above that gave a limited view of the street.

He could hear the bustle of feet, dozens of people gathering, kicking dirt and stones onto his cell’s floor.

  
“ _They’re gathering. Bout time they’ll grab me too._ ” He thought with thinned lips.

He spared a look at his cellmates, all in varying states from panicking to solemn acceptance, but all filthy and weary.

There was a small part of him that wondered if, really, _this_ many people could’ve been guilty of high treason.

“ _Knew the king was unpopular, but this might be excessive._ ”

  
Then again, he’d been around the humans long enough to know that, sometimes, whether someone was truly guilty of treasonous thoughts didn’t matter.

They just wanted a show, something the murmurs of the crowd outside seemed to confirm.

His head slacked against the stone wall as his thoughts drifted to days earlier.

He’d been sent to England to stir trouble, as per the job description, and he’d found a good impetus in the form of disgruntled gentry who had umbrage with the royal family.

Such thoughts, he knew, were dangerous.

But then again, _demon_.

He really didn’t do much in the grand scheme of things; just the occasional nod, a shrug that offered no firm stance but also didn’t dissuade the would-be assassins from their plotting.

  
No, he really wasn’t one to dirty his hands. Not his style.

Nor was he interested in murdering the current king of England.

But, again, part of the job.

  
He thought it’d be easy, quick.

The band of soldiers that stormed his flat and dragged him to the dungeon proved otherwise.

  
He also thought an _escape_ would be easy, and it should’ve been.

A snap of the fingers and he’d be somewhere out in the Mediterranean.

It was a thought he’d had on his first day.

  
Except…

His mind drifted back to that moment, where a certain coworker of his popped through the stone floor in a mound of sulfurous dirt.

_“Ah, Crawly. Seems you’ve gotten yourself in a bind.” Jeered Hastur with a maggoty grin._

_  
“It’s Crowley. And…well, you know. Humans will be humans.” Crowley grunted as, repeatedly, he snapped his fingers. “Damn shackles…won’t budge. Why the heaven is my – “_

_  
“Your powers? Feeling a bit feeble, Crawly?”_

_  
“Oh, sod off.”_

_  
“There’s a reason, you know. Your reports have been lackluster. I should know, I brought them to Lord Beezlebub’s attention.” Hastur smirked. “The Dark Council convened, came to an agreement: if your work is so unspectacular, then, really, you don’t need_ that _much power to complete it, hmm?”_

_  
Crowley’s struggles stilled as Hastur’s words registered._

_“Wait…the Dark Council. They – “He gritted his teeth. “ – you’re a liar.”_

_  
“It’s unbecoming of me, but no, I’m not lying.” Hastur gestured to the shackles. “Try again. Summon a demonic miracle. Teleport yourself back below.”_

_Crowley glowered. He pointedly shifted to direct his fingers skyward, to draw upon the powers of below, of Hell._

_He snapped._

_And only the tiniest, faintest spark shot forth._

_His blood chilled and his pupils darted to his fingers._

_He snapped again._

_And again._

_And again._

_Each time, the same result._

_  
“You’ve been cut off, little serpent.” Laughed Hastur. “Maybe experiencing the_ humans’ _execution methods might inspire you. Then, maybe, we’ll extend your powers’ limit again.”_

_The duke’s form slowly slipped below._

_“See you soon, Crawly.”_

_  
_ The rapping echoed through the cell and jolted Crowley from his recollection.

“Alright, you dogs! Time to go.”

  
The door was unlocked and opened in one swift motion, and four guards stormed the cell.

  
Some of the men fought, screamed and begged for mercy from whatever saint would listen.

Others spat, swore and kicked while cursing the soldiers’ bloodlines to damnation.

Others yet were corpse-like already, near carried from the cell with listless and dead expressions in their eyes.

  
Crowley was none of these.

He fought a little, hissed and growled as he was roughly dropped to the floor, his shackles unlocked.

His wrists, rubbed raw, were bound once more by rope attached to a long lead.

  
“Up then. No dallying. The people are awaiting your death.” Barked a guard.

  
“Oh, wouldn’t want to keep the lot from _waiting_. Wouldn’t stall their show.” Crowley mumbled.

  
He was quickly pulled out the cell and, single file line, paraded to the courtyard.

  
There were multiple horses, all fastened to harnesses which, accordingly, were attached to crude, flat hurdles, a mockery of a sled to usher the prisoners to their deaths.

Crowley was shoved along, over to one sled, and yelped as the back of his knees were kicked in.

Several hands reached for his shoulders and tossed him, back first, onto the sled.

Another group of hands clasped around his feet until his ankles were secured, metal shackles keeping him attached to the wicker sled.

Crowley tried, fussed and struggled against his restraints to, maybe, lay on his side.

Frustratingly, however, his ankles were attached to the lowest corners of the sled; to lean to either side would be impossible, even with his rather casual regard for human anatomy.

So, he gave up, and slacked against the sled.

The sky was gray that day, filled with clouds.

Not even She wanted to see him, even for his execution.

Somehow, that dampened his darkened spirits more.

The rope binding his hands was undone and replaced, once more, with chains.

“If you’re good, we’ll kill you a little quicker.” Snickered the guard.

  
Crowley hissed and spat a gob in his eyes.

  
The guard reeled back, fingers digging at his eyes, while another guard took up a switch and lashed at Crowley.

One, two, three, four, _five_.

Narrowly, each time, he missed Crowley’s own eyes.

  
Crowley spat to the side, saliva tinged with blood, as the guard wrenched his jaw to meet his gaze.

“Oh, we’re gonna have _so_ much fun killing you. D’you even know what’s in store for you?”

  
“The usual lovely, creative stuff lot like you come up with, I bet.” He grumbled.

  
The guard only gave him the shortest confused look before he threw aside his grip and whistled at the lead rider.

“Onwards!”

  
A horse neighed, the gate was opened, and the throngs of the witnessing villagers filled the air.

The ground moved beneath Crowley, dirt churned to clumps and muck, and he braced himself.

He’d seen enough public executions; the execution was only the cherry on top of the shit sundae.

The main course was getting through the audience.

  
As the gates passed his peripherals, the wave of noise, of cries and jeers and curses, fell over him and inundated his senses, blocked out any form of thought, rational or otherwise.

Faces, numbering somewhere around a hundred, maybe more, bordered the road, all dirt-streaked and filled with hunger for blood, for spectacle.

Near immediately came the storm, a deluge of projectiles from rotted food, to stones, to anything one could reach with moderate risk of trampling.

  
A rotted tomato splattered across his face, streaked the raw lash marks with thick juices.

Rocks darted and bounced against his chest, _thocked_ with each hit, with one particularly large rock pulling a shout.

“H-Hey! I’m gonna die anyways! Cool it with the rocks!” hissed Crowley.

  
His response was a rock thrown from another witness, which careened against his head and sent ringing through his ears.  
  


He groaned and slacked against the sled, closed his eyes and tried to force away the cacophonous shouts, the endless screams and cheers for his gruesome death.

  
“Death to the rebels! Long live the king!”

  
“Skin the yaldson! Let the devil reclaim his kin!”

  
“Let the hedge-born murderer hang!”

  
“Flay the cox-comb!”

  
More rotten fruits and vegetables splattered against his face, his clothes, through his hair. The stench had finally reached his nose and, while the 14th century wasn’t really a fine smelling era, the putrid odor was reaching its peak.

Rocks and clumps of dirt continued to rain down upon him.

From the crowd, someone must’ve broken free, because in a minute Crowley’s eyes shot open as a rod slammed down upon his stomach.

He gagged, wheezed as the air was forced from his chest.

The man, an oafish sort with mussy hair, grinned wildly as he wailed upon his chest.

“Squeal, son of a bitch! Squeal!” snickered the man.

  
Crowley felt something crack and he yelled, growled at his assailant.

  
The man was swiftly pulled back into the crowd by two guards.

“No good if he’s dead before the hanging!” reminded one.

  
Crowley laid once more against the sled, shuddered and sucked in breaths, uncaring if a fruit’s juices slipped to his tongue.

Perhaps it’d be a less rotted one, and it might be a small blessing.

Something that tasted closer to palatable because, to be honest, this was becoming a bit much.

Out of blind hope, he snapped his fingers again.

And again, aside from a small swell deep within him, nothing happened.

Another rock pelted his shoulder.

  
The horse trodded along, pulled its cargo towards the city’s outer wall, where the gallows stood and a few men, already sentenced, dangled with the shallowest of life still in them.

Distantly, Crowley heard a shriek, a deathly wail that could only belong to a man being flayed and quartered, followed by raucous cheers.

In his peripheral, a shape appeared, one that preceded a sudden, painful burning through his entire body.

He flinched, hissed, and spat.

“The heaven are you doing??”

  
“My son, I apologize. I only wish to grant you a chance of redemption.”

  
Crowley cocked an eye upward and immediately groaned.

“Really? Bit late there, father. Go save the other sods.”

  
“No soul is too far gone to be redeemed.” Insisted the priest.

Crowley barked a laugh, hollow and near crazed.

Oh, how _rich_.

As if this whole affair wasn’t awful enough.

He distantly wondered if someone, above or below, had a hand in these series of events, if only to spit in Crowley’s face through cosmic doings.

“You have _no idea_ who or what you’re talking to.”

  
“I’m talking to a condemned man.”

  
Crowley’s eyes flared.

He pulled a thread of demonic energy upward, enough to let his eyes glow with hellfire.

“Yeah. One who went beyond redemption a _long ass_ time ago.” He glowered. “Now if I were you, I’d scram. I’m due to get beheaded and skinned.”

  
The priest, looking quite shaken and possibly insulted, tutted and walked away.

  
The horse snorted and drew to a stop as its rider yanked on the reins.

  
“End of the line.” Grunted a soldier as he stooped and undid Crowley’s restraints.

  
Crowley was unceremoniously shoved onto his feet and pushed along, past the throngs of bloodthirsty peasants who reached and tore at his excuse of a shirt.

The executioner loomed, not quite the bulky fellow Crowley imagined but rather an average sized man, even a bit thick around the midsection.

The guards tossed him to the executioner, who adorned Crowley with a noose and ascended the ladder, the length of the rope in his hands.

The noose bit into his neck, at the moment lightly, but Crowley knew this would only last so long.

A man in finer garbs emerged from the crowd as the guards formed a perimeter and cloistered the crowds several feet away.

“To you, Anthony of London, the royal court determines you guilty of conspiring with others to assassinate the King of England, a crime determined as high treason.”

  
The executioner tugged at the rope and pulled a gag from Crowley.

  
The crowd booed.

  
“How do you plead?”

  
Crowley sucked in a shuddered breath.

His eyes darted upward, to the executioner and the long rope that would be the _start_ of his discorporation.

Then, he met the gazes of the crowd, of the lawyer.

He swallowed.

  
“Not fucking guilty. But that doesn’t matter to you lot, huh? You just want to watch me die, don’t ya?”

  
The crowd shifted, shuffled with questions and murmurs.

  
“W-We do not contend to execute an innocent man, Anthony of London – “

  
“Oh, cut the shit, I _know_ what you all want. So, go on with it! You want a show?” Crowley’s eyes boggled as he gathered what little demonic power he felt within. “I’ll give you one.”

  
The lawyer fussed with his scroll.

“S-so, to clarify, you’re not – “

“I’m guilty! Blood on my hands, want to stake the king’s head or what not! Whatever gets this over with! I’m done with this fucking century anyways! It can rot in Hell for all I care! Sweet someone, you lot are miserable! Get a hobby or something!”

  
The lawyer was muttering something to a guard, who eyed him nervously.

Then, the lawyer gave the signal to the executioner.

  
The rope was pulled taught, and the noose formed its vice grip.

  
Crowley gasped, cried as the rope sawed into his skin, the nonessential air yanked from his lungs.

He shivered, quaked and struggled, rolled his eyes to the back of his head and made a litany of ugly noises.

He felt the executioner give experimental tugs, little notes to tell him when to give them their finale.

Finally, upon one last tug, he let himself go limp.

  
And willed his heart to stop.

  
The crowd went silent.

The lawyer furrowed his brow and ushered a guard forward.

Said guard approached with trepidation and held a shaking hand under Crowley’s mouth.

“…the man is dead.”

  
The lawyer’s eyes widened, before they sharpened to a glare at the executioner.

“You weren’t supposed to kill him yet!” He scolded through gritted teeth.

  
“They don’t usually die so fast!” said the executioner.

“What do we do?” asked a guard.

  
The lawyer frowned, sneered with disgust, and flailed a hand.

“Well, quarter and behead him anyways. That is his sentence; it should be carried out accordingly.”

  
The executioner started to descend the ladder as the guards approached, knives at the ready to cut Crowley’s body free and bring him to the chopping block.

One guard’s hand ghosted the side of Crowley’s head.

  
Crowley’s head, at that moment, shot up, eyes wide and fully serpentine.

  
The guards yelped, screamed and fell backwards, their weapons clattering to the ground.

  
The executioner cursed and fell from the ladder, rope still in his grip.

  
This forced Crowley up, now fully hanging from the gallows.

Still, he bellowed wicked, full laughs.

Scales emerged around his neck and jaw; his fangs extended.

His cheeks ballooned until he spat projectile lobs of maggots, roaches and rats onto the spectators in the distance.

  
The crowd shrieked and dispersed, many flailing to rid themselves of the maggots and rats on their persons.

The lawyer and guards attempted to assuage their fears, to proceed with the executions, but to no avail.

“ _Cower in fear! Let this be a lesson to your spectacle! Your thirst for blood only defines your fates! Let the fires of Lucifer welcome you in this life and the next! Weep, for your fates have been sealed!_ ” Crowley roared and cackled in a voice not his own, as the last roaches, rats and maggots slithered from his maw.

  
The grounds outside the city swiftly vacated, the remains of the few executed prisoners and those mid-execution all that remained.

And even the living stayed only long enough to marvel in horror at Crowley before they made their escapes, never to look back.

  
Crowley panted, the last of his demonic power drawing to a whimper that floated into the depths of his soul, and his body sagged.

The rope, as it did, tugged at its apex, and Crowley wondered distantly if he’d be internally decapitated.

The burn had intensified, raw fibers eating at abused, reddened skin, and the aches from his earlier treatment only festered in the cold wind.

Crowley trembled as his feet swayed. A glance downwards proved that even if he broke free, the fall would be less than comfortable.

That is _if_ he broke free, which his growing exhaustion told him wasn’t possible.

He deeply exhaled, allowed the breath to leave his form once more. He tried to sink further down, to quicken the rate of gravity and the rope severing his neck.

Best not prolong the inevitable paperwork and (also inevitable) mockery from his compatriots.

He let his eyes shut and awaited Death’s arrival through shallow dreams and memories.

  
…

  
Except, Death didn’t come.

At least, not as quickly as he hoped.

Hours had passed.

He knew this as the sun, once barely over the horizon, hung high in the sky.

And he was still conscious, still in his corporation.

Still alive.

  
The birds had started to congregate.

A crow tried to peck at his face, only to scamper away from a well-placed glare.

Fine for them, they settled on the viscera drowned in the mud.

The rope continued to dig deeper.

He was certain he felt blood coagulate, a warmth drip down his neck.

He tried to yell, wondering if newly brazen townsfolk might end his misery, but all that emerged was a gurgled choke.

He pulled at his bindings to no avail.

He stared at the sky and waited.

  
The sun had set and the realization had settled, cold and bitter, in his gut.

Somehow, he wasn’t dying, and the answer was what had been, for him, a boon.

In the hours that passed, his mind had whirred and fixed upon his remaining demonic powers.

He supposed, and concluded, that somehow, even the meager morsels of power were what were keeping him alive, prolonging his discorporation towards the realms of ludicrousness.

After all, if they’d been fully stripped, he’d’ve died hours ago.

But even the weakest demon or angel can’t be strangled to death.

  
He might not be drawn and quartered, but he might’ve sentenced himself to a far worse fate: slow decay and being eaten alive by animals, worn by the elements, possibly only killed once the gallow itself rotted and collapsed.

If he were in a proper state of mind, he might begrudgingly admit it as well played.

A golf clap to his overlords and their ever-devilish cruelty.

He might even acknowledge that, yes, this was a mite bit creative.

Now, however?

He shivered, teeth clenched, eyes fixed at the growing twilight as he fought and struggled with his noose, now certainly embedded in his skin.

Rage filled him as he fought, hurled curses and soundless cries to the universe.

Until finally, he slacked.

A cold, evening wind chilled his skin, left warm only by the trickles of blood.

The wind and the distant animals were his only companions.

  
He was alone.

  
He bit his lip, his eyes watering, until he realized the futility of holding back.

After all, he had no audience.

It started as a single stream before it cascaded into sobs.

He cried hoarse cries into the night until he’d cried himself into exhaustion.

Until he couldn’t bare to remain conscious another moment.

  
Slowly, the darkness creeped at his vision, slowly pulling him into the bliss of sleep.

He could’ve sworn he felt a tug, heard a snipping of rope fibers, as everything, finally, went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome to my whumptober series!! not sure if i can make this daily but i'll try! hope u all enjoy, these are a bit rough and not all will be as long as this one (it got away from me tbh) but i hope that they're still enjoyable and maybe painful bc whump
> 
> tags will update of course w/ fandoms, ships and characters w/ each entry


	3. Never An Easy Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ellie is forced to choose: her boys or Hardy.
> 
> The choice is obvious, but nothing is ever easy.
> 
> CW: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, stabbing, threat of killing kids

_WE HAVE HIM_

_  
COORDINATES LISTED: --_

_  
COME ALONE_

_  
IF YOU DISREGARD THESE INSTRUCTIONS, WE WILL KILL HIM_

_  
_ Ellie flashed the note with those words at the camera, whose lens whirred and screwed narrow at the paper.

She held still, firm and angry, eyes fixed on the metal door, the remains of a former fallout bunker.

  
Eventually there was a click.

Two clicks.

A clunk.

  
And the door crept open.

  
Not enough for her to dash in, but enough that a shadowy figure could reach for her, extend an open palm to her.

  
“You’re bringing me to him.” Ellie affirmed. “If you don’t – “

  
“You held your end of the bargain. We’ll keep ours. If you don’t pull any tricks, we won’t either.” Assured the man, dressed in black with a matching balaclava.

Ellie frowned, furrowed her brow, at the man and his hand.

Every part of this told her it was a trap, that following the note to the letter was a huge mistake.

Yes, backup was situated some yards away, out of sight and far enough to qualify the note’s demands.

And yes, if anything went wrong, even the slightest wrong, she could call them in and bring the scumbags’ operation down on their heads.

But they hadn’t bet on a fallout shelter; her wire’s connection might go dead.

  
And, again, their detective sergeant was walking right into a possible lion’s den.

Even the fastest reaction time couldn’t guarantee her survival.

No matter what, Ellie was at the disadvantage.

  
Still, she took the hand.

And was promptly yanked inside, the door slamming shut behind them.

  
She shook out her wrist and glanced at the surroundings, dank and damp, with flickering lights and pools of unknown liquids, most definitely of unsavory origins.

“ _He’s been kept here? For_ five _days?_ ” She thought with gritted teeth.

She promised herself that, once Hardy was safe and the crooks apprehended, she’d make their lives a living _hell_.

  
Another man swept around her and took her shoulder.

The first man took the other.

She was bustled, swiftly, down the dimly lit halls, past multiple doors with darkened windows.

As she was forced along, she tried to keep mental note of any identifying details, anything to track these criminals after or during the fact.

But all she could note was black balaclavas.

  
Not unhelpful, per se, but not helpful either.

  
She was passed to a man, a third one dressed the same as the first two, who stood at attention at the furthest most door, whose light was on.

“He’s in here.” He said, hands behind his back.

  
Ellie’s furrowed brow lightened and, finally, she let her gaze flit from the kidnappers to the window.

She leapt for the door, only to be wrestled back by the first two men.

  
“Not so fast. You don’t expect us to just _hand_ him over, do you? We need something from you first.”

  
“You said come alone.” Ellie hissed against firm hands. “I did. Give him up or I’ll change my mind. You’ll have an entire constabulary on your ass in minutes.”

  
“You try that, and we’ll kill you _both_.” Spat the third man. “So, I’d be amenable, if I were you. Remember that you’re in _our_ territory.”

The man reached for his pocket and pulled out a knife, some three inches in length, and held it handle-first towards Ellie.

  
Her pupils shrunk.

  
“We’ll give you Detective Hardy, but in return, we need you to _kill him_. See, we even have a knife for you. Freshly sharpened and everything.”

  
“W-why…why in the _hell_ would I consider – “Ellie shook, face flaring with rage.

  
The third man calmly flashed a photograph, grainy and distant.

Poor resolution or not, it froze Ellie’s blood.

It was Tom, Fred.

Her _boys_.

A voyeuristic shot of them being taken to school, both boys clearly unaware of the camera fixed upon them.

  
“If you choose not to kill him, we have alternatives in place. Your sister…Lucy, I believe? You must know she isn’t the most attentive child minder. It’d take but a few minutes to slit their throats and – “

“Y-You bastards. You absolute _bastards_. You said you’d hand him over. I _did_ what you asked.”

  
“Never said alive.” Shrugged the third man, who pressed the blade’s handle into her hand. “It’s up to you, DS Miller.”

  
The second man stepped away to undo the locks.

One, two, three, four clicks.

Then the door swung open.

  
“Once again, it’s your choice, DS Miller. We’ll give you five minutes alone with him. Consider it our gift to you.” Said the third man as Ellie was ushered inside.

The door’s slam echoed through the room and Ellie was, finally, left alone.

  
With Hardy.

  
And oh _god_.

  
Ellie had to fight a stagger as she took in the sight.

Hardy was beyond a mess.

No, whatever happened those five days, left him a _wreck_.

  
His eyes were nearly sealed behind purpling bruises.

A dried trickle of blood originated from his lip.

His hair was matted and sweat-stained.

Worst of all, however, was the collar.

A dog’s collar.

Strapped around his neck and attached low on the wall, to keep him on his knees.

  
Ellie could’ve vomited.

At the slam of the door, Hardy finally stirred, his head shot up and his narrow vision fixed on the door’s direction.

“M-Miller?” He croaked.

  
Ellie’s heart cracked.

She swallowed and nodded.

“Yeah. It’s me.” She answered. “Christ, you look awful.”

  
“Tactful as always, I see.” Hardy chuckled between coughs.

  
“Well, I usually am. It’s you who…oh god, does it matter? What have they done to you?” Ellie bit off as she hastened over.

  
“They might’ve pummeled my face.”

  
“Oh, sod off. I need to know so I can help you.”

  
“They did. And the, _ergh_ , the ribs. Breathing hurts.” Hardy groaned and fumbled at his side.

  
“Right, yeah. Okay, we can work on that.” Ellie mumbled as she set the knife aside.

  
The clack of the knife drew Hardy’s attention and, slowly, he drew an eyebrow up.

  
“Damnit. Chains. Can’t cut through…the _leather_. Could cut through that. Is there a weak spot? Could slice through, get you free. Got five minutes, you can fight. We’ll have a hell of a fight on the way out – “

  
“That’s not standard issue, Miller.” He gestured over. “The knife.”

  
Ellie stilled, eyes flitting to the knife.

She chewed her lip.

She felt Hardy’s body stiffen, anticipating her answer.

  
“Thought there’d be fight. I brought protection.”

  
Hardy trembled, gave a wobbling smirk.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“Shut up. I’m not lying.”

  
“But you are.” Hardy sighed. “Miller, what did they tell you?”

  
“It doesn’t matter, Hardy. I’m getting you free, now shut your gob – “

  
“Ellie, _please_.”

  
Ellie reluctantly met his gaze once more.

  
“You know me.”

  
Ellie nodded. She chewed on her lip.

“Few years, yeah. Say so.”

  
“Then you know that I’d rather you tell me.”

  
Ellie’s shiver returned. Her hands, once fumbling with Hardy’s collar, lowered.

She sank down onto her knees, joined him, eyes fixed on his.

“They have Tom and Fred.”  
  
Hardy’s eyes flared.  
  


“Or not…don’t _have_ them, exactly. They’ll kill them.”

  
Hardy slacked, if only slightly.

“Okay…unless? There’s a catch, has to be.”

  
“I don’t – “

  
“ _Miller_.”

  
Ellie bit her lip until it bled.

She sniffed, steeled herself.

“They want me to kill you.”

  
Hardy’s skin paled as, slowly, his eyes traced over the words.

There was a flicker, as the offer registered.

The full impact.

  
“Hardy – “

  
He interrupted with a sharp, resolute nod.

“Then…s’not really an option. Do it.”

He held his head up, exposed his neck.

“Quickest this way. I’ll bleed out in three seconds. Be a bit messy but – “

  
“What, no! No, you…damnit Hardy you _martyr_ …don’t make this sound like a trip to the shops!” protested Ellie.

  
“Ellie, there’s no choice here. Don’t…you aren’t seriously – “

  
“N-No! No, no, my boys. They come first. No contest. Sorry.”

  
“Don’t apologize.” Bit out Hardy. “Don’t apologize for being a good mum. But you need to do it.”

“I-I know! I _know_. I…” Ellie stared at him; the first tear shed.

She paused to take a single, long breath, to steady herself.

“…we can fight our way out. _No one_ has to die.”

  
“Miller, there’s three of them out there. You have a knife, but I’m dead weight.” He said, voice mirroring the many interrogations, the many questionings. “As for backup…”

  
“…yards away. There’ll be a delay.” Ellie finished.

Her chest felt so heavy.

  
Hardy gazed at her, expression solemn.

“The odds aren’t in our favor.” He said. He started to reach for her. “Ellie,”

  
“ _Stop_.” Ellie hissed and banished the lone tear against her wrist. “You don’t call me that. _We_ don’t…you don’t call me that. Every time you _call me_ Ellie is when things go to shit. I won’t…you can’t…it’s…”

Her hand trembled, lip wobbled.

Tears started to form a thin stream.

“… _fuck you_.”

  
Hardy said nothing, didn’t contest.

He only nodded.

  
“Your daughter. _Daisy_. She needs you.”

  
“Your boys need you too.”

  
“We’re not playing comparisons! I… _shit_!” Ellie screamed and nearly tossed the knife across the room.

Her arms wrapped around her midsection, tugged close.

She bowed her head.

“Why can’t we try, Hardy? Just…we have to try. I’m not killing you.”

  
“Miller,” Hardy said in hushed tones. “give me the knife. I’ll do it. You don’t have to do this. But I won’t let your boys die. You need them. They need you.”

  
“I-I need – “The last of the sentence went unsaid.

Ellie wondered if Hardy understood her, regardless.

It seemed, maybe, he did; he reached for her, the tips of his fingers brushing hers.

“I hate this.” She shuddered.

  
“S’no picnic for me either.”

  
“You _knob_. You do this. Every time things get bad, you do this.”

  
“Guess it’s a thing I do.”

  
There was a firm knock at the door.

  
“We’re running out of time.” Hardy hushed.

  
“I-I-I know. I… _shit_. I don’t…I _can’t_ …”

  
“You _can_. Tom and Fred, think about them, Ellie.”

“Stop _fucking_ calling me that!” Ellie shouted. “You insufferable, Scottish bastard! Don’t pretend that this is easy! You’re asking me to kill you! You! My boss, my _friend_! The one person who believed me after every bit of shit I went through!”

She gasped air as her head hung low.

“I don’t want to lose anymore people, Hardy. I don’t want to lose anyone else. I _know_ there’s no choice here. I know what I need to do. It doesn’t make this any easier.”

  
Ellie gulped and choked. She trembled as a few more tears joined the first.

“It’s not fair.”

  
A hand reached feebly at her arm, her left arm.

“Hey.” Hardy said softly, almost secretly.

  
Ellie forced her tears away, rubbed them with her sleeve, tried to pretend she was fine.

  
His eyes darted to the knife, willed her to reach for it.

  
“No, Hardy – “She shook her head.

  
“We can’t chance it, Miller.”

  
Ellie’s lips thinned, deepened. She tried to glare at Hardy but couldn’t.

Her hand stalled, fumbled, then grabbed it.

She refused to look at the knife.

“Sir, I…it’s been…I don’t…I’m sorry.”

  
“I forgive you.”

  
“ _Don’t_.” Ellie warned.

  
Hardy nodded slowly.

“I do.”

Tears slipped from him too.

He took Ellie’s hand that held the knife and positioned it between them.

“We don’t hug.”

Ellie’s eyes darted down, met his hand, and she paled at the realization.

“No. We don’t.”

  
Hardy finally started to break, tears running fast.

“Can we…just this once?”

  
Ellie fought; the tears were coming too fast to fight.

“Oh,” Ellie croaked. “you _arsehole._ You absolute, fucking _wanker_.”

  
Crinkles formed around his eyes as he gave one, last smile.

And he pulled her close, held her close with one arm.

The knife sank in deep, deep into his chest, through the pacemaker scar.

He gasped, gagged.

His fingers dug in, curled and clawed at Ellie’s back.

Blood oozed down his chest.

  
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m _sorry_ …” Ellie finally broke.

  
Hardy croaked, tried to respond but only hoarse whimpers came out.

He tried to breathe but nothing helped; he tried to force the gurgling in his throat to stop.

Instead, he focused on her.

Focused on holding her close, his anchor in his last moments.

His anchor through…well, _everything_.

Tried not to think of the words he hadn’t said.

Didn’t have the time for.

  
Even the mere thought of the thought pulled tears from his eyes.

He couldn’t say it with words but maybe…oh how she’d _hate_ him for it.

But he couldn’t say goodbye without it.

With the last of himself, he craned to kiss behind her ear, leave a butterfly’s kiss at her neck.

His vision was going black.

  
She felt it, the kiss, and only stilled for a moment.

The lightest touch spun her thoughts.

There was part of her that was _furious_.

Because, of course, it’d take _dying_ for him to admit it.

And that hurt her…she wanted more _time_.

She hiccupped, fought back the curses she wanted to spit.

Because, really, she’d only hate herself more if _that_ was the last thing he heard.

“Hardy.” She whispered, not expecting a response.

It took more courage than she’d admit, to return his kiss with one to his jaw.

She only hoped that, maybe, he felt it, and knew.

She held him, comforted her partner, her friend through his last moments.

Whispered her apologies.

Tried to hold back her horror as, slowly, he ceased to move.

And then she heard it, his final puff of air.

His body went limp.

  
She immediately pulled out and let go of the knife, pulled Hardy as close as she could, to chase what remained of him, to somehow convince herself that he was still there.

Still with her.

And to utter more apologies.

  
At some point, the locks clicked.

The door swung open.

  
“You’ve upheld your end of the bargain, DS Miller. You’re free to go and we promise your boys are alive and safe.”

  
But she didn’t move.

She didn’t leave.

She didn’t let go of Hardy until her backup stormed the bunker and cuffed every last of the scum in sight.

And not without making SOCO and her PCs promise to scour every bit of dirt on the three men, anything they could find.

  
Because no matter what, she’d make them pay for Hardy’s murder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry, there will be happier stuff w/ them at some point


	4. Aftershocks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 3: Manhandling
> 
> Set during the aftermath of Sandbrook's first investigation. Hardy is reeling from the loss of everything: the case, his family, his career. 
> 
> So is someone else.
> 
> CW: smoking

Two duffels and several cardboard boxes.

  
That, for over a decade of marriage, over a decade of hard policework, was the summation of Alec Hardy.

  
It was packed away in his car’s boot now as he drove down the darkened road.

  
The trial was a disaster, as he feared it’d be once Tess’s car was broken into.

As he feared once the pendant was stolen.

As he feared once he learned _how_ and _why_ the pendant was stolen.

  
It collapsed beneath him, crumbled like a sinkhole, and he was still free falling.

At the steering wheel, his hand shook.

He kept his eyes on his headlight’s conjoined circles, the only illumination.

Easy enough; his mind, however, wandered.

  
The succession: the trial collapsed; Ashworth was let go with no evidence to prove his guilt.

The Gillespies and Newberrys were left devastated, angry, grieving and lost.

The only consolation was his ability to avoid Tess kicking him out of his home.

He did that himself.

He just wished he could’ve seen Daiz one more time.

  
His throat tightened, a sickening thickness ran through his body, leaving the _him_ within his body floating.

His heart thumped, beat, off-rhythm.

He yanked on the turn signal.

Pulled off to a nearby car park.

Parked haphazardly and stumbled out of his car.

Against the door, he leaned back and drank in thick gulps of cold, night air.

His eyes fell shut as he tried to focus on his breathing.

On his breathing and his stuttering heart.

It was the fourth time that week.

  
“ _Cardiac arrythmia. You’ll need medication to keep it in check. Take it whenever the symptoms present themselves._ ”

  
He fumbled for his pocket, pulled out the blister packet, and forced down two pills.

He gulped, gasped, and laid shivering against the car, acutely focused on his body, his reactions.

How he was, literally and metaphorically, falling apart.

He hiccupped a hoarse sob.

Tears split his cheeks.

  
“ _…I know you’re mad. And I get it; I_ really _fucked up. I-I’ve…I’ve fucked up._ ”

  
“ _I just don’t get it. Tess…_ ”

  
“ _God’s sake, you’re a detective, Alec. You must know we haven’t been happy in a long time._ ”

  
“ _…_ ”

  
“ _And I wouldn’t have agreed to Dave’s offer if we were happy._ ”

  
“ _I-I_ know _. I…I just don’t get it. How could…Lisa and Pippa’s families. Christ Tess, you_ knew _how crucial this evidence was!_ ”

  
“ _I know! And I’m sorry._ ”

  
“ _We haven’t got a thing on Ashworth now. He’ll go free, our case will collapse._ ”

  
“ _Yeah, I know._ ”

  
“ _…_ ”

  
“ _What are we gonna do, Alec?_ ”

  
“ _…_ ”

  
“ _Right, look, I’m an adult –_ “

  
“ _I’ll say it was me. Lost the evidence._ ”

“ _What?! No, Alec, why would you - ?_ ”

  
“ _If you take the blame, Tess, you’ll lose your job._ ”

  
“ _Yeah? And you’ll lose_ yours _if you take the fall! Someone’s gonna lose their job._ ”

  
“ _Better me than you._ ”

  
“ _Oh…fuck’s_ sake _, Alec. You martyr…_ ”

“ _Please, Tess. Let me do this. You can’t…you need this. I can take the heat._ ”

  
“ _But why would you do it?_ ”

  
“ _…_ ”

  
“ _Oh lord…_ ”

  
“ _We can make this work, Tess. I-I don’t wanna be mad. And I’m not. Not really. I love you._ ”

  
“ _…_ ”

  
“ _Please. We can, we can make it through this. Still be a family, stay together at least for Daiz’s sake. Please, Tess._ ”

  
“ _…you know we can’t do that, Alec._ ”

  
He dug around his pockets until he found a partially crushed carton of cigarettes.

He’d quit some time ago, but he hadn’t thrown out his stash.

In this moment, he was thankful for that.

He reached into his car only to find his old lighter.

He popped a cigarette between his lips, lit up, and took a long drag.

He blew out thick, blue smoke into the darkened sky.

  
He continued, taking drags and exhaling the toxic smoke, uncaring about what damage it levied against himself.

Really, did it matter?

Everything he was shattered that night.

Detective. Husband. Father.

All gone.

What was he now?

  
He stuffed the carton back into his pocket and focused on his old habit.

A remnant of another time, when he was young, and that fire burned in his soul.

  
“ _You know how bad that is for you, don’t you?_ ”

  
“ _Eh, there’s worst things to do. We know._ ”

  
“ _Doesn’t mean it isn’t bad._ ”

  
_She’d plucked the cigarette from his lips._

_  
“Oi! You’re not my mum.”_

_  
“No, because if I was, I’d give you a bollocking.” She smirked. “Come on. Stead of that, let’s go to the pub.”_

_  
“Alcohol isn’t much better for you.”_

_  
“Yeah, but I drink, and I bet you do too. Come on. First one’s on me._ ”

  
The memory faded. That first date with Tess.

He was so deep in his thoughts; he missed the crunch of gravel and dirt behind him.

He started to look.

  
There were hands on his shoulders.

  
He was turned, parallel to the car.

His assailant’s face was a blur.

His cigarette tumbled onto the gravel.

He was thrown to the grass, in time with the cigarette they both careened to earth.

  
Hardy groaned, head spinning and train of thought fully derailed.

He started to sit up –

  
A boot met him halfway, _slammed_ on his chest.

Pinned him deep in the grasses.

  
Hardy panted, hands scrabbled at his attacker’s ankle to no avail.

“T-The hell…is your problem?!” He gasped as he scratched.

  
His head flung back as the man dug in his heel, burrowed it between Hardy’s ribs.

  
The man crouched down, reached and clawed at Hardy’s shirt.

In one deft move, he’d lifted the detective and thrown him.

  
Hardy’s back slammed against his car.

  
Stars were in his vision, his head was spinning, but Hardy gritted his teeth.

Blindly, he surged forward and made contact, gripped his attacker’s shirt.

He pressed forward, leaned with his whole-body weight, tried to take him to the ground.

  
His attacker only snickered.

  
Hardy _knew_ that snicker.

  
“You – “

  
The man slipped through the break and snatched Hardy’s jaw, twisted his face back.

Slammed Hardy again into the ground, flat-backed and hard enough to pull the breath from Hardy’s lungs.

  
Hardy gasped, gagged and laid still.

The man stalked forward and, once more, pinned Hardy with his boot.

He removed his mask.

  
“Ashworth,” sputtered Hardy. “w-what the hell are you doing?”

  
Ashworth stared down, a thin smirk on his face.

He ground his heel and pulled a groan from Hardy.

“What’s it look like, DI Hardy?” He said. “I need something from you.”

He leaned forward, onto his foot.

“You know where Claire is. I need to see her.”

  
Hardy tried, once more, to twist Ashworth’s boot away, to no avail.

“And you think I _want_ to help you? After this? After everything?”

  
“Well, I figured asking nicely wouldn’t work.” Chuckled Ashworth. “You’re a hard-ass; stubborn bastard. So, I know that you won’t listen to the courts.”

Ashworth leaned in close.

“I’m right, aren’t I? You still think I’m guilty.”

  
Hardy’s lips thinned.

“I don’t think. I _know_.”

  
“Let it go, Hardy. There’s no evidence against me. Just whatever shite you forced from Claire. I _know_ you turned her against me; I need to see her and set things right.”

  
“You’re dangerous, Ashworth – “

  
Lee lifted his foot.

And slammed it back down.

  
Hardy wheezed, convulsed.

He sucked in a breath and continued.

“ – I-I’d rather die than let you within _ten meters_ of her. Guilty or not.”

  
“No, you can’t do that. I’m innocent, I can see her. I’m her _husband_.”

  
“Not anymore.”

  
Ashworth’s eyes flared, widened.

“What are you talking about.”

Hardy hissed, tried to wiggle free, but couldn’t.

His heart was thumping, thudding at breakneck pace in his chest.

He was dangerously close to a heart attack and, _no_ , he wouldn’t allow that.

Not in front of Lee Ashworth.

“She filed the paperwork. She’s officially in protection. You have no legal recourse to see her, quite the opposite. You get within a kilometer of her? You’ll have police on you in seconds.”

“You’re lying.”

  
“M’not.” Hardy shook his head. “I’m not.”

  
Ashworth hissed, lifted his foot.

  
Hardy flinched, awaited another bout of stomping, but it never came.

  
Instead, Ashworth paced in front of him.

“W-Why. Why? Why would she agree to that? She knows, we know. We’re innocent.”

He stopped, stared at Hardy.

“Well?”

  
Hardy swallowed dryly.

  
“Well??” surged Ashworth.

  
“T-That is classified information. I won’t give you anything else.”

  
“And what if I beat you to a pulp? I could do that, _detective_.”

Ashworth dug his heel back into Hardy’s ribs.

  
“T-That’s a crime. A _crime_. I’m a man of the law – “

  
“You report this, after everything’s that happened? It’ll look pretty vindictive of you.” Ashworth droned with a twist of the ankle. “A disgraced detective, guilty of losing crucial evidence to a homicide and missing person’s case, accuses a former suspect of another crime? You know you can’t say a word.”

Hardy folded into himself, tried to move the boot while working on his reply.

But, reluctantly, he knew Ashworth was right.

The jury would be against him, the literal and cosmic one.

Short of murder or else, Ashworth had the advantage.

  
And, well, that only made Hardy’s heart careen towards disaster.

  
Sweat gathered, beaded on his forehead, as his vision started to tilt and whirl.

He laid still, sucked in breaths as he tried to calm his heart rate.

His limbs went slack, dead fish, against his sides.

He coughed and stared, glassy eyed, upwards.

  
Ashworth only watched, watched as the fight drained from Hardy.

His expression was one almost of pity, even disgust.

He lifted his foot off his chest.

“You won’t tell me a thing, though. You’d take it to your grave I bet. I’d respect that most times.”

  
He reached down, grabbed Hardy once more by the lapels.

Lifted him and threw him back against his car.

  
Hardy cried out, groaned in pain.

A ringing had started in his ears.

He fumbled for his pockets.

  
Ashworth interrupted him one more time, his fist clenched around his collar.

“So, you’re telling the truth? Claire…she doesn’t want to see me. Not right now.”

  
Hardy wanted to fight.

He wanted to drag Ashworth’s face through the muck, remind him of what he’s done.

Remind him that he’d _never_ give up chasing him.

But damnit, he was so tired.

Instead, he nodded.

A look crossed Ashworth’s face, solemn and thoughtful.

He threw away his grip on Hardy like trash.

“Won’t get anything out of you. Not now. I see that.”

He stuffed his hands in his pockets.

“Fine. You win for now, detective. I’ll leave you and Claire alone. But I’m not finished. Not until I hear you say I’m _innocent_. And you stop ruining my life.”

  
With that, Ashworth stalked off into the night.

  
Hardy sank, near collapsed on himself against the car.

He’d finally found his pills.

He took another dosage, stuffed them in his mouth and swallowed.

He gasped and half-laid, half-sprawled there, waiting for the dosage to kick in.

All the while, he felt at his chest, tender and assuredly bruised.

He felt at his jaw too and realized the upside to his scruff.

  
Minutes passed; he lost track.

Eventually, he staggered to the driver’s side and found his mobile.

Because he knew.

Lee Ashworth’s words were meaningless.

There was no guarantee he’d leave Claire or him alone.

He had to act.

_Now_.

  
As he dialed the number, pressed the mobile to his ear, a strange thought crossed his mind.

Perhaps a remnant of earlier.

_This is your life now_.

Disgraced detective running a makeshift witness protection program of one.

…a strange role.

But he supposed, after everything, he couldn’t be picky.

  
…

  
“Claire. Pack up your things. I’ll meet with you in an hour.”

  
…

  
“No. Nothing…look, I just promised to keep you safe. Part of the deal. It’s…matter of caution. You’ll be fine.”

  
…

  
“Okay. I’m on my way.”

  
  
_Click_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cant believe it took me this long 2 write lee ashworth lol


	5. Pine Wood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 4 - Buried Alive
> 
> Hardy wakes up somewhere dark, cramped, and filled with sawdust.
> 
> CW: claustrophobia, blood, panic attacks

It was pitch dark when he woke.

  
And where he woke, the air was stale, bitter and heavy in a way he was at a loss to describe.

The scent was familiar, though.

Old.

Yet fresh.

  
A strike of pain rapped at his brain and he reached for his head, only to bump against something hard, flat and solid.

And something only a few inches from his face.

He pressed his palm flat against it, felt around.

The texture was dusty and smooth. Each brush of his hand increased the scent and sent something fluttering onto his face.

  
Sawdust.

He finally placed it.

  
He bent his knee but it, too, clacked against the solid something.

He clambered for his mobile, still in his pocket.

He tapped the power button, filled the space with blue light.

  
It was wood, pine wood.

All around him, creating a space just a little longer and wider than him: his heels pressed uncomfortably at the other end and his arms were mostly strapped to his side.

His head, aching, spun as he tried to string thoughts together, answer the plethora of questions he was forming.

  
Because no, _no_ , this wasn’t happening.

And this wasn’t the wooden box he knew he was in.

  
He slammed at the roof, slapped and punched it, but only came away with bruised knuckles.

“Hello??” He shouted. “Is anyone out there??”

He huffed, slammed at the roof once more, felt his hands grow clammy and slip off the wood.

No, no he couldn’t panic.

He couldn’t have more than an hour, maybe two’s, oxygen in here.

He had to stay calm.

  
As well as figure out how he ended up here.

  
He tried to think, think of anything that happened before he woke up in this hell.

There was an aching in his head, his only clue.

His mobile’s light extinguished, plunged him into darkness once more.

  
…his mobile.

He pressed himself against one side and fished it from the corner it fell against.

He cramped himself to shine the mobile’s display at him.

He punched the call app, clicked the most recent contact.

  
Held it to his ear.

  
And only received an error tone.

  
His brow furrowed as he punched the dial button again.

But only received the error tone again.

He finally looked at the top corner of the screen.

  
One bar. Two at most.

It wavered between no signal and two bars.

He swallowed, throat dry.

He stared at the screen, willed it to hold a steady signal.

“Please, please…” He muttered. “Damnit, you have to – “

  
It flickered.

Two bars.

He waited.

  
A minute, two minutes.

The two bars held steady.

  
He punched the call button a third time and waited.

  
The dial tone droned, filled his ear and the coff – _box_.

“Come on.” He mumbled. “Come on. Come – _Miller_ , please – “

  
A click.

  
“ _Hardy! Christ’s sake, where are you?_ ”

  
Hardy sighed, shivered as the adrenaline ebbed just a little.

“I-I’m in a box. I think. _W_ _ood_ box.”

  
A pause.

“ _Hardy, what do you_ mean _you’re in a box?_ ”

  
“Miller,” Hardy bit off as a spike of panic rammed his heart.

His mouth clamped shut as he breathed, nasal and sharp, the precious oxygen.

  
“ _Hardy? Hardy, your mobile. I-It must have location services, yeah? You have them on?_ ”

“I…I yeah, yeah I think.” Hardy exhaled.

  
“ _Okay. Okay…good._ ”

He could hear Ellie step away, hear her bark orders to another officer.

There was shuffling on her end.

“ _I’ve ordered a trace on your mobile. We should find you. Just stay calm. Are you in immediate danger?_ ”

Was he?

He felt at the roof of the box again.

It felt firm, solid.

  
“N-No.”

  
“ _Right._ ” Ellie sighed. “ _Okay, that’s good. Something good._ ”

  
“Miller,” Hardy tried to stretch, tried to get comfortable, but the box’s volume made that impossible. “I don’t remember what happened.”

  
“ _What do you mean you don’t remember?_ ”

“I-I don’t know,” Hardy sucked in a sharp breath. He hadn’t wanted to. “What were we doing before this? All I got is this bloody headache and I’m trapped in this _box_. I-I don’t know…I can’t get out.”

  
There was another pause.

“ _We were pursuing suspects. Part of a smuggling ring. You went off to one side._ ” He could hear her pace, racing through her recollection. “ _I heard something. Like a crack._ ”

  
“Cricket bat.” Hushed Hardy, as the memory flowed back. “Ambushed. Knocked out.”

  
“ _They distracted us…_ me _._ ” He heard her curse under her breath. “ _Next thing I knew you were gone._ ”

The mobile shuffled again.

“ _Hardy, what do you mean you can’t get out?_ ”

“There’s…there’s something above me. Above the box, it’s heavy. It’s heavy a-and the roof…won’t budge. Tried beating on it, fat lot of good…”

He shivered, trembled.

He unknotted his tie and threw it to the other end.

“Miller, it’s a coffin.” He finally admitted. “I-I must be underground, I-I-I don’t have much time…if I’m not found – “

  
“ _You’ll run out…shit. Shit. Shit!_ ”

He heard a slam on her end.

“ _Okay, okay, sir? Sir, you need to keep calm. Focus on conserving your oxygen, we’ll get to you and find you. Okay? And don’t, don’t you dare start giving up. I need you to –_ “

  
The error tone droned.

  
“No…no! No, no, no! _Fuck_!” Hardy fingers slipped against the screen as he tried to redial.

No signal.

It held stable.

  
He sucked in another mouthful of precious oxygen before he remembered.

“ _Damn it, Hardy. You need to keep calm._ ”

Easy enough to tell himself that.

Tell that to the coffin, which was growing unseasonably hot at a concerning rate.

  
He tried to distract himself, between taking shallower breaths, by keeping the light of his mobile bright.

Each time it doused, he clicked it back on.

Each time, it displayed his lockscreen: a recent picture of Daisy.

She’s sticking her tongue out at him.

He laid flat, as flat as he could make himself, anything to avoid touching the top of the box.

But even that felt impossible; the space was just too _small_.

And, somehow, it was getting smaller.

  
Each time the light doused, the ceiling lowered, trudged closer to his nose, to his face.

The sides were closing in too, compacting his neck and legs.

_Got your aunt’s legs, Alec. Spindly and thin. Like a spider._

Funny that she’d said spiders.

  
Because he was quickly starting to feel like a squished one.

  
Sweat beaded on his forehead, his cheeks, or was it tears?

He pressed his hands against the side of the box, pressed with his full weight.

Perhaps he could create more space.

_Or the earth can claim you. Join the other corpses in the ground._

_  
_“ _No…no, no Miller told me…can’t start thinking like that._ ”

  
_They won’t find you. You know the odds._

  
Hardy, against his wishes, was starting to pant.

Maybe he’s overheating.

He ripped at his shirt, hard enough to ricochet buttons against the increasingly cramped space.

“H-Have to cool down.” He muttered.

He tried to remove his jacket, but there was too little space.

“Let me out…”

He shoved, pressed himself with all limbs against the sides, the top and bottom of the bo…the _coffin_.

…

Was this how he was going to die?

After everything?

He survived the Latimer case, both Sandbrook trials.

Carved himself something close to a new life.

Reconnected with his daughter.

Found his closest friend.

  
And he’d still die alone.

  
_Hardy, damnit, don’t you dare give up. If you start to give up –_

He knew.

But knowing didn’t pierce the blinding panic that, at this point, was unavoidable.

  
“Let me out, let me out…”

He beat at the roof.

“I-I’m not…I’m not ready. Please, _please_ , someone. Let me see my daughter… _Daisy_ , please, she left too fast.”

Daisy was at her mother’s for the weekend, left while Hardy was at the station.

He didn’t get to tell her he loved her, like he always did.

“I need to tell her… _please_ , it’s soppy, I know. I-I’ve got to let her know. Just one more time, please.”

  
Tears joined his sweat.

The coffin was boiling now.

And…there must be a hole.

Somewhere.

Because, suddenly, he couldn’t breathe.

  
Raspy coughs rocked his throat, fell dead in the dampened space.

One hand flew to the base of his neck as the other clawed at the wood.

He could break through, dig to the surface.

No guarantee he was buried deep; could be a shallow grave.

The other hand shakily joined the first clawing one.

_Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic, DON’T PANIC_

_  
_“S-Shut up!” He breathed before he retracted his first hand.

Blood bubbled at his fingertips.

Must be splinters.

His hands fell limply to his chest.

  
The tears were pouring down his face; all he could hear was the rapping of his heart, going faster, even though it _knew damnit_ that their oxygen must be running out.

In his vision, there were lights.

The bright, sterile light of a hospital room.

The distant, blinding glow of the sun.

The flickering of torchlight under water.

Voices, muffled, calling to him.

  
He stared, eyes growing glassy, shudders wracking his body.

  
There was a thud, two, three, four.

At the roof.

They barely registered.

  
The wood above him cracked, splintered, sent a cloud of sawdust across his face.

It creaked.

Streams of light poured in.

With it, a morsel of damp air.

  
Then, all at once, the ceiling was gone.

  
Replacing it, a cloud-covered sky.

And three of his coworkers, sweaty and panting, staring at him with torches lit.

  
“ _Thank god, he’s alive_.” The PC looked upward. “ _We got him! He’s breathing!_ ”

The commotion echoed in Hardy’s ears, distant like underwater.

Someone slipped down into the hole.

A she.

Dressed in far too dressy of clothes to be rummaging in the mud.

She pressed through his three rescuers and – oh, it was _Miller_.

She crouched down and was pressing fingers against his neck, brushing drenched hair from his forehead.

  
“ _Sir? Sir, you’re with us, right? Sir?_ ”

  
He opened his mouth, but no answer came forth.

Only a choked noise that, most situations, he wouldn’t let slip free.

  
She looked away.

“ _– in shock. Get…trauma blanket. I don’t know –_ “

  
His hands were shaking.

Hers was starting to too.

He fought through the fog and, barely, ghosted her hand.

  
It pulled her attention right back to him.

  
He tried to sit up, only to meet her hand.

  
“Sir.”

The fog was starting to disperse.

  
“Are you injured? You shouldn’t move.”

  
He licked his chapped lips, tried to form words.

“H-Help me out.”

  
“If you’re hurt – “

  
“ _Please_ , Miller. P-Please.”

  
Ellie gave a look that scanned his body, examined his limbs for visible signs of breakage before, with a slow nod, she agreed.

She clasped his hands, minded the blood, and pulled him to a sitting position.

Then she maneuvered him out, feet meeting squishy mud.

  
He stood for only a moment before he collapsed like a newborn deer.

  
“O-Oh geez, _shit_ , got you. Christ’s sake, you’re light – “

She went silent as another noise, fully alien, broke the air.

  
Sobbing.

Hardy was clutching at her and sobbing.

  
It left Ellie at a loss for words.

So, she did what she knew she could do: she held him there and let him cry.

  
And maybe, for the first time, they hugged.

Because if not now, then when?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i promise the nxt one will be less heartbreaking bc dang this hurt to write


	6. A Bit Cliche, Don't You Think?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 5 - Rescue
> 
> Assigned to a wagon train in the early 18th century, Aziraphale runs into some bandits and ends up in an...embarrassing situation.
> 
> CW: implied death of children (off-screen), Crowley's mustache

_Somewhere within the Unorganized Territory, Early 19 th century._

_  
_If there were assignments that Aziraphale disliked the most, anything involving horses or cattle would top the list.

This was mostly due to, despite thousands of years spent in the company of such animals, humans struggling to create methods of riding that were remotely comfortable, especially for long stretches of time.

  
On the bright side, she didn’t need to _ride_ the animal directly.

No, the patrolling men managed the horse-riding while she and the other women could sit in the carts.

  
On the other hand, that still meant riding in carts, which when it came to assignments, were never comfortable.

Because someone forbid that Aziraphale be assigned to ride in a carriage with _actual_ padding.

  
She took a moment to sit up and rub her bum, which had grown sore from the relentless journey.

  
“Best get on with your textiles, Eliza.” Motioned another woman, the wife of the expedition leader. “We’ll need plenty of warm clothes when we reach the Sierra Nevadas, and you’ve finished the least out of all of us.”

  
“Oh, yes, very right.” She dug through her apron for her spool and needle. “My apologies. I’m not the handiest with sewing.”

  
“Of course. Though, truly, seems you’re not the handiest with anything. You said the same thing yesterday for _cooking_.” Said another woman with a look.

  
“Enough of that, Martha. Behave yourself.” Scolded the first woman.

  
Aziraphale ignored them both and tried, she did try, to focus on her project.

Though, really, her knowledge of sewing began and ended with fixing popped seams and buttons.

To make a whole garment…and out of _leather_.

She hissed and glanced at her stabbed thumb.

  
“Lost your thimble?” the first woman offered her own.

“Ah, thank you.” Nodded Aziraphale.

  
“You know, never did find out why you’re heading out west. No husband, no children; what brings you with us?” Martha cocked her head. “Can’t be to open a tailor shop. Nor a canteen.”

  
Aziraphale frowned.

“Well,” She chewed her lip. “I wanted a fresh start. I’m considering opening a chapel. I imagine with the focus on building the homesteads, there hasn’t been much thought given to God.”

  
“Oh, good. So, you’re bringing the guilt then.”

  
“Martha, enough!”

  
“You’ll be a pastor then? Can’t be one, you know.”

  
“It’s the new frontier.” Huffed Aziraphale as she set her project aside. “I believe _I’ll_ be the judge of whether a woman can lead a congregation or not. Now, dear Martha, I’d very much like you to shut your mouth. I must finish these winter boots for _your son_.”

  
Martha turned beet red.

  
The first woman stifled a smirk.

  
They didn’t converse much after that.

  
There wasn’t much to fill the time other than needlework and watching the plains stretch into the horizon, endless and much the same no matter where you looked.

Occasionally, there’d be a headstone.

Or a wagon riddled with vultures.

Aziraphale was quickly deciding that, come the conclusion of this assignment, she’d pack up and return to England as soon as possible.

Maybe she’d return once the States decided to stop growing.

And added padding to their wagons.

The afternoon had drawn long, air hazy and warm, the bugs slowly crawling out to flutter and feed.

It was around then that the first shot was fired.

  
Shouts rocked the caravan as a horse whinnied and took for the hills, dragging its lifeless rider behind it.

  
“Bandits!” cried the caravan leader.

  
Aziraphale and her wagon-mates went pale.

Immediately, Martha sprang forward and pulled the curtains taught.

The first woman held three of the children close and hushed them silent.

They crouched, hid among the supplies, as gunfire filled the air, split with hoots, hollers, and the death rattles of various combatants.

Aziraphale pressed a hand to one girl’s mouth, hugged her as the child cried.

  
Eventually, it went silent.

Faintly, they heard the clinking of spurs, the crunching of dirt under boots.

They saw the shadows of men, guns at the ready, as they circled the wagons.

Aziraphale’s heart stuttered as they heard, down the wagon line, the screams of their companions.

Screams of women and children.

  
Eight shots rang out.

And they were silenced.

  
Aziraphale shook, felt the shiver as Death made its arrival, felt the passing of souls into the afterlife.

So many lives cut too short.

At that, she fumed, felt her lip twitch into a snarl.

Her gaze flitted around the wagon, searched until she spotted a knife used for skinning game.

She took it up, examined it and, distantly, wondered if she could conjure some holy flame.

  
“W-What are you doing? Eliza, keep low!” hissed the first woman.

  
“I’m not sitting around and doing nothing.” Aziraphale answered. “I’m going to distract those…bad men.”

“Are you crazy?? You’ll be killed!”

“This isn’t my first fight, my dear. I think I can handle myself.” She chuckled. “If there is one thing I _know_ how to do, after all, it’s protect.”

  
The women, her wagon-mates, stared with shock and awe, as Aziraphale gave her knife a twirl.

“Then…we’ll help you.” Said Martha.

  
Aziraphale’s eyes widened.

“Oh…oh, well, that’s quite kind of you. But please, it’d be best for you to stay low. Keep the children calm and safe. This should take, oh, but a moment.”

  
The other women paused, glanced at one another.

Eventually, they nodded.

  
Aziraphale gave a small smile.

“I promise. Things will be tickety-boo. Just wait here. I’ll be back.”

  
At that, Aziraphale pulled the wagon’s curtain just enough to sneak out.

  
“Tickety-boo?” questioned the first woman.

  
“British talk, Rosemary. Those folk talk weird.” Martha shrugged.

  
Aziraphale crept down, ensured her steps didn’t creak on the wagon’s boost, and clung close to the wagon’s canvas.

She listened close; she didn’t hear the clacking of horse hooves.

They must be on foot.

Well, that’d make it simpler at least.

A shadow ran parallel, grew darker against the wagon.

Ah, perfect.

She waited until the footsteps’ crunching grew louder.

  
Then, she sprang.

She grabbed the back of the man’s collar and pulled a yelp from him.

“Terribly sorry, sir. I need you for a moment.” She whispered in his ear.

She brought the knife to his neck and backed away from the wagons, made a show to draw the attention of the vagabonds.

“A-Alright. You…bad fellows need to stand down. You’ve had your fun. Killed our compatriots. It’s best you move along now.”

  
The bandits, donning the expected trail garb, stared in mixed shock and surprise, until the ostensible leader stepped forward.

He tipped his hat before removing it.

“Ah, mam, we mean ye no harm. See, we need some of your supplies. We’re but lowly travelers.”

“You killed our friends!” fumed Aziraphale. “Murdered children!”

  
“Ah, well…they started it.”

  
Aziraphale shot him the deadliest look.

“I ask you again. Step down or I’ll…I’ll take his life! Slit his throat, right there.” She pointed the knife. “And do the same to you.”

  
“Mam, a fight is no place for a respectable lady like yourself.”

  
Aziraphale frowned and, just to make a point, kneed her captive between the legs.

  
Said captive howled, slipped to his knees, and nicked himself on Aziraphale’s knife.

  
“Seems I do just fine in a fight, _gentlemen_.”

  
The men fumbled for the guns and drew them on Aziraphale.

“Hey, now, we don’t want no funny business. Drop the knife and we’ll leave y’all alone.”

  
“For some reason, I highly doubt that.” Aziraphale answered. “Drop _your_ weapons first and I’ll consider dropping mine.”

Behind her back, she snapped her fingers.

And the captive’s gun appeared in her other hand.

She gave a short grimace as she pointed the flintlock at the other gunfighters.

“I’d listen to me, boys. Something tells me, well, that my bullets would hit first. And your shots might be…a bit of a _misfire_.” And oh, Aziraphale grinned a little too much at her own joke.

  
The men looked at one another, the other bandits giving questioning looks to their leader as they seemed to, seriously, contemplate Aziraphale’s offer.

The leader turned away, talked to his men.

He glanced over only once, a quick flit that Aziraphale nearly missed.

Finally, they turned back and, one by one, dropped their weapons and raised their hands skyward.

  
“Ah, quite good.” Aziraphale sighed. “Now, I need you all to promise me that you’ll cease your thievery at once. Perhaps…rethink your lives? Find something a bit more – “

Something hard and blunt struck Aziraphale, _hard_ , at the back of the head.

She slumped to the ground, stars in her eyes as her vision started to fade.

The bandits’ boots were the last things she saw before everything went black.

  
\--

  
“ _Come on Pete, you know we can’t kill her. S’bad taste to kill a lady._ ”

  
“ _That’s only for state executions, Paul. That’s why the ladies get the pretty deaths. Besides, do_ you _want her wandering around? She might get a…a whole patrol of her type rounded up. And what’ll that get us?_ ”

  
“ _A bunch o’ ladies with guns?_ ”

  
“ _Exactly._ ”

  
“ _Don’t know. That don’t sound too bad._ ”

  
“ _…_ ”

  
“ _…what?_ ”

  
“ _She threatened to_ kill _you, Ted._ ”

  
“ _I mean yeah, but…you know. Might not have minded –_ “

  
“ _You’re odd, Ted. Real odd._ ”

  
“ _Ah, nough foolin’. We gotta get rid of her. Make it look like an accident, if none of ya will shoot her._ ”

Aziraphale groaned, blinked her eyes as her vision filtered back.

The first thing she felt was the ache in her head; well, wasn’t that lovely.

The second was something hard and rough, digging into her back, and something similarly hard but cold against her feet and head.

The third: her arms and legs were tied.

  
She fussed, tried to stand up but found herself securely fastened to the ground.

Trussed up like a hog, she realized with a put-off frown.

  
“Ah no, now she’s awake.”

  
“Well knock her upside the head again! Best she’s not awake for the next part.”

  
‘Erm, excuse me, _gentlemen_.” Aziraphale cleared her throat. “I’d very much like to be untied.”

  
“You ain’t _gettin’_ untied, mam.” Growled Pete. “We don’t take kindly to yer rebellious nature or threats. S’dangerous, so we’ll just stomp that out before it gets worse.”

  
“Oh, I do apologize.” Aziraphale fluttered her eyes. “I see I was mistaken. Not gentlemen whatsoever. Please, _chauvinist pig_ , would you kindly untie me?”

  
“Oh, you little bitch!” snapped Paul.

  
“Easy! Easy!” Ted grappled his partner.

  
“Well, _none_ of you are gentlemen, clearly.”

  
“And yer about to be no lady. _Alive_ lady, that is.” Pete hocked to the side. “There’s a passenger train due in an hour. And you gotta catch it.”

  
Ah, well, that explained _what_ Aziraphale was trussed to.

She craned to glance at the iron rails.

“Bit theatrical, don’t you think?” She noted. “And messy. Quite messy, do you _know_ what happens when someone gets hit by a train?”

  
The men didn’t even grant her an answer before they tipped their hats and walked off.

  
“Suppose you do then.”

Left laid out on the tracks, Aziraphale kicked at her bindings, hoping to loosen them.

But to give the men _some_ credit, their knot-tying skills were top-notch.

Which wasn’t good news to Aziraphale, but still…

She tried to snap her fingers but, fastened behind her back, there wasn’t much wiggle room for her them.

Which left her stuck until someone, hopefully, would find her.

  
Because goodness, this was _not_ a report she wanted to file.

How exactly do you explain discorporation by _train_ to your superiors?

  
Aziraphale mused that, somehow, they’d probably make this her fault.

Somehow.

  
“Hello?” She finally called; her attempts exhausted. “Anyone out there? I could, ah, use a hand.”

  
Her answer was the whistling wind.

  
“Oh, bother.” She sighed as she laid, accepted her looming discorporation.

  
She might’ve laid there for a half an hour, maybe a bit more.

She spent her time watching the clouds and listening for the oncoming train.

  
Finally, something new.

Not a train.

Something far more…human.

For lack of a better word.

  
“Woah! _Woah!_ I said woah, you mule!”

  
There was a sharp snort and the clack of horseshoes against stone.

“Oh, bugger off you overrated llama. I hate this as much as you do. Now behave or I’ll turn you into leather.”

  
She heard a whinny and something, roughly, tumble to the ground.

  
“Oh _damn_ you, you stupid horse!”

  
She recognized that voice.

  
“Crowley?” She asked as her heart fluttered.

And, well, dear heart, that is _not_ appropriate.

Do stop that.

  
She heard a pause, a rapid rustling of clothing and shifting of dirt.

She heard the demon mutter, brush at his clothes before, finally, the sound of jingling spurs approached.

He took his sweet time, for sure, and his gait sounded different.

[She would not question how she knew, so well, the demon’s _gait_ ]

Something closer to the widestanced cowboy walk.

His shadow loomed over her as he finally came close.

He leaned over and tipped his hat.

  
But of course, he was dressed in all black, weather and heat be (literally) damned.

The only variation was his red bandana, tugged off his face to expose…was that a mustache?!

He removed his sunglasses and cocked a grin.

“Howdy, angel.”

“Oh, good _lord_.” Aziraphale rolled her eyes.

“What? Not the rescue you hoped for?”

“Quite the opposite, actually. As always, you’ve come just in time.” Aziraphale’s smile faded a little. “But…dear boy, you have a _mustache_.”

  
“What about it?”

  
“It’s truly ridiculous.”

  
“I’ll have you _know_ that this took quite a bit of time to grow. Had to demonstrate _patience_ , do you know how unbecoming that is for me? Thought you’d be proud.”

  
“I appreciate the dedication, but it still is ridiculous.”

  
“Well, _I_ like it.” Crowley gave her a once over. “Nice dress by the way. Suits you.”

  
“Oh, thank you.” Aziraphale pulled at her restraints once more. “Um, if you don’t mind, I seem to be in a bit of a pickle.”

  
Crowley frowned, examined the restraints and noted the train tracks.

“You can miracle yourself free, can’t you?”

  
“My hands are a tad stuck. I can’t snap.”

“Thought the snap was unnecessary. All in the mind.” Crowley gestured widely to his head. “Or is it like those new light switches? Have to, you know, turn on your holiness…”

  
“No, it is _not_ like a light switch.” Aziraphale frowned.

  
“Then…?”

  
“I, erm, well thought it might be a…a frivolous miracle.”

  
“You forgot, didn’t you? Forgot you don’t need the snap?”

  
Aziraphale turned a shade of pink as she sent a look his way.

  
“Ah, you did! You completely did!” Crowley gave his snake-like grin.

“Might I remind you, dear boy, of your little misadventure in Australia – “

His grin evaporated.

“Oh _someone_ , that was 2,000 years ago!” Crowley groaned.

  
“Well, you’re still hardly one to judge.” Aziraphale pouted and looked away.

  
She could hear Crowley’s smirk.

“So, you want to continue this elsewhere, or are the train tracks fine?”

  
She glanced about in thought.

“Well…if it isn’t a _bother_ for you, I suppose it might spoil my intentions to let _guilt_ compel one of those bandits to free me. Quite demonic of you to free me instead.”

  
“Quite.” Crowley snapped.

  
And Aziraphale’s rope bindings fell away.

She lifted herself upright and stretched her hands, the fuzziness fading as circulation returned.

“Much better.” She nodded.

  
“Well, if you don’t need anything else…” Crowley started to turn.

  
“What, no lunch?”

  
Crowley grumbled some gargled vowels.

He might’ve also turned a little pink himself.

“Don’t make it sound like a _routine_ , Angel.”

  
“You must admit, we do it often.”

  
“Often or not, best not voice it. There’s ears everywhere.” He glanced warily at some bushes nearby.

  
She, in turn, glanced at the heavens.

“You’re right. My apologies, I forgot myself.” She noted. “Well, then where are you off to?”

  
“California. Supposed to make some trouble at a mining settlement. Should be easy enough.” They walked together towards his grumpy steed.

“Well, I can’t condone your demonic wiles, but I will say, this is fortunate: I’m off to California too.”

Aziraphale twisted her ring.

“Though, now, I have not the foggiest where they are. If I had a companion to find them, perhaps I’d reach them without getting lost and, well, _you’d_ know where your adversary is. A bit win-win, in a strange sort of way, don’t you agree?”

  
Crowley adjusted the saddle, stuck a boot in a stirrup.

He watched her as she…well, she gave that damned _look_.

And, just like before, as always, he crumbled.

“Yes, alright, I’ll…bring you to your little group.”

  
“Oh, would you?” beamed Aziraphale.

  
“Yeah, but you’re getting the backseat. Get on, Angel.” Crowley hoisted himself onto the horse and held out a hand for her.

  
Aziraphale sat behind Crowley, clung to his shoulders, and held on for dear life as the cantankerous stallion bolted through the trees and down the trails.

They reached the wagon train, where the survivors were picking up the pieces, as a wobbly Aziraphale slipped off the horse.

Crowley knew not to linger; best not to be seen by possible agents of either sides.

  
So, he gave a tip of his hat before he took off into the sunset.

  
“Who was that??” asked Martha, who’d run to Aziraphale’s side.

  
Aziraphale, who’d been distracted by Crowley’s departure, finally looked at her wagon mate.

“Oh, him? He’s an…old associate of mine.”

  
And that was that.

The wagon train made it to California without further incident.

And Aziraphale forgot about that run-in with the train tracks.

  
Until the age of film and serials, that is.

The door to Crowley’s flat slammed open.

  
Crowley fumbled and dropped his watering can.

  
“Crowley! You wiley serpent, I _know_ this is your doing!” Aziraphale fumed.

  
Crowley cocked a lazy look over his shoulder.

“Aziraphale, as a demon, you’ll have to be more specific than that. Plenty of wiles, lots of time you know.”

  
“You know exactly what I’m talking about! This!” Aziraphale jabbed at a newspaper.

The exposed page had an editorial of a soon to be released film, “The Dearest Damsel”.

The image used: the heroine trussed to the train tracks, as a train quickly approaches.

  
Crowley’s eyes widened.

“Huh. Seems oddly familiar for some reason…”

  
“Of course! I knew this was your work! Must you embarrass me so??” Aziraphale threw the newspaper at Crowley.

  
“Angel, I haven’t the slightest clue what you’re insinuating. I mean, I must commend whoever shot that scene, they really must be a wily sort. Must know just how to push an angel’s buttons.”

The smirk that popped onto Crowley’s face, however, was all Aziraphale needed.

  
“You…you…absolute demon, you!” The angel’s face was a bright pink.

  
“Relax, Aziraphale. It’s a film. They make hundreds of them a year. That scene? Nobody will remember it.”

  
Aziraphale seemed to settle down at that.

He fussed with his waistcoat buttons.

“Would they though?”

  
“How many writings have been lost to time, Angel?”

  
“Yes, I see your point.”

  
“Trust me, angel. This’ll blow over. One little scene? No one will remember it.”

  
“Alright…I’m still upset with you though.”

  
“Would you _allow_ that to be amended with copious libations?” Crowley waggled.

  
“I will. If only to forget about such a...mortifying motion picture.

  
“ _Film_ , angel. Now come on, I might just have a bottle of brandy with our names on it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i thought something lighter might be in order, not completely thrilled w/ this but hopefully its still fun lol


	7. Self-Employed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 6 - "Please stop" + "No More"
> 
> A man named Charles works on a project in the basement.
> 
> CW: waterboarding, references to murder

Every line of work comes with complications.

  
Charles knew this; he’d worked enough odd jobs over his lifetime, he could create a veritable novel of things he encountered that, atop the usual occupational stresses, nearly exhausted his reserves of patience.

Upon reflection, he came to understand that much accountability was held by managerial decisions and structures.

It was the vague reasonings and lack of answers that _created_ these problems.

And people like him were hired to accommodate said problems.

  
He supposed that becoming an independent contractor, of sorts, was simply inevitable.

  
He had his own schedule, his own goals and projections to meet.

He was his own boss.

Course, there were still roadblocks; they were simply different.

  
Such as the one in his basement.

  
He flicked the tap off and lugged his watering can into his arms, adjusted it so he could carry it and a cup of tea.

He tapped the door open and descended into the darkened basement, scent stale and walls covered in long neglected maintenance tools.

He set down his tea, his watering can, then returned to the stairs to close and lock the door.

  
While up there, he pulled the light switch’s string.

  
It clinked, flailed, as the light buzzed above.

“Morning, detective.” He sniffed as he stabilized himself on the railing. “I hope you slept well.”

  
Detective Hardy lolled his head back, muttered a reply muffled by his gag. He shot a glare and flexed his hands, wrists bound to the armrests.

  
Charles reached the bottom of the steps, held at his lower back and hissed.

“Dear me, I’m getting old, detective. Can’t take the stairs like I used to.”

He approached and slowed, craned down to examine Hardy like a vulture.

“Oh, look. Still have some blood around your nose. That won’t do.”

He took a napkin, dampened it, and dabbed the blood away with steady hands.

  
The other hand, unoccupied, loosened Hardy’s gag.

  
“Nasal bleeding from chest trauma. _I_ wasn’t aware that could happen, did you?”

  
Hardy didn’t answer.

  
Charles’ eyes flitted up.

“Well, detective?”

  
“Why do you care?”

  
Charles furrowed his brow.

“Well, because it’s interesting. I thought of all people, a _detective_ would agree. You must see things far worse than nose bleeds.”

  
“That’s not why I do my job.” Hardy gritted. “I do it to stop people like _you_.”

  
“I haven’t the foggiest what you’re talking about.”

  
“You _do_.” Hardy’s tone dipped, saddened. “The four girls. The ones on the ridge. They died because of you.”

Charles took a slow breath and sighed.

“Those were accidents, I assure you. The poor ladies were suffering so; I thought it best to help them along.”

  
“That’s it then.” Hardy tried to stretch, to see what his captor was doing. “T-The link. All the girls…their medical records had one similarity: all diagnosed with cancer.”

  
“You did your homework.” Charles lifted something from a box.

  
“It’s my job, Charles. To find you before you kill another.”

  
“And that is very inconvenient.” Charles tutted as he returned. “Face forward, if you may.”

  
In Charles’ hands was a new restraint, like the outline of a metal face mold, with leather straps at both sides.

He flipped up two metal loops on both sides of Hardy’s head; where the straps connected to the chair.

“Those measurements, from yesterday. They were for this if you were wondering. I’m quite proud of it myself.”

  
When Hardy refused to move his head, Charles simply gripped his jaw and forced his face forward.

He slid the restraint onto his face and secured the straps to both sides, keeping Hardy from turning his head or lifting it.

“Is it uncomfortable?”

  
“Fuck you.”

  
“I’ll take that as a no.”

Charles then laid a cloth over Hardy’s forehead and eyes, a simple white one made of cotton.

“I thought I’d try something different today, Detective Hardy. I was doing some light reading last night and came across an interesting idea. Have you heard of ‘Chinese Water Torture’? Or, well, just water torture in general.”

  
Charles reached for his watering can and started, with a slow stream, pouring the water onto the cloth, watching as the white saturated and darkened.

  
Immediately, he heard Hardy’s breath hitch.

He sat back and watched as his captive struggled and fought, kicked fruitlessly at the restraints.

  
“ _Interesting_.” Chirped Charles. “And not a drop of water has hit your tongue.’

He pulled the cloth lower, covered Hardy’s nose and mouth, the soaked towel forming an impression of Hardy’s features.

  
Hardy’s pupils had expanded, black filling over brown, fixed on Charles movements with nervous sensitivity.

  
At that, Charles laid two fingers against his pulse point.

“Hm, quite high. One might think you’re scared.”

  
Hardy grunted, shouted through fabric, tried to throw the cloth from his face with his teeth.

  
Charles, finally, frowned.

He grabbed Hardy’s throat and squeezed.

“Enough of that. You’ll hurt yourself.”

He lifted the watering can again.

“And if I’m right, you’ll want to save your breath. It might be a tad hard to breathe after this.”

He tipped the can and poured, a paper cup’s worth, water onto the cloth.

  
As soon as the water hit, the towel swallowed and bled it through.

Charles imagined that the fibers were playing the lead role, transferring the water in miniscule droplets while irritating the nasal passages.

Which, if his readings were correct, would prompt Hardy to gasp for air.

Which would lead to more water swallowed.

Which would start the asphyxia process.

And, if the water were poured uninterrupted, Hardy would drown.

As it were, he’d just start to suffocate, body convinced it was drowning.

So little water, not even a stream.

Charles didn’t have to wait long.

  
Near immediately, Hardy seized against the restraints, gargled cries and coughs echoing in the basement, the towel bubbling and sinking with each attempt to breathe.

He kept up a pattern; a stream of water at a time he figured was equivalent to a drinking glass’s worth, then a pause.

Then another.

Then another.

And another.

  
At each pause, Charles would sit back and sip his tea, take mental notes of his subject.

Interestingly, it seemed he got enough water in his mouth to spit out small sprays of liquid.

Or, perhaps, his mouth was salivating at a higher rate, in response to the exacerbated pressure placed on his throat and lungs.

How funny that the body would _assist_ the drowning process.

Eventually, Charles set down his cup upon noticing Hardy wasn’t moving as vigorously as he had earlier.

He crossed over to the other side and undid a buckle.

Then, in tandem, he removed the face harness and the towel.

  
Immediately, Hardy threw himself forward and hacked, heaved, spat onto the floor and sucked deep breaths, which only made him cough further.

His body was trembling something fierce, his fingers dug into the ends of the armrest.

Water dripped from the tip of his nose.

  
Charles crossed over to him, keeping to the side and out of sight.

He watched and waited, waited until Hardy’s shivering seemed to slow down, as the detective’s breaths grew even and fuller.

One hand reached and threaded through Hardy’s hair.

  
And yanked him back.

  
“Break time’s over, detective.” Hummed Charles as he fastened the restraint. “The whole can is just for you. It’d be a shame to waste it.”

  
Hardy’s eyes widened; pupils shrunk.

The blood drained from his face in such a fascinating way.

  
Charles drew the towel over his face and, with a jaunty hum, started the process once more.

He lost count of how many times he cycled through the process, how many times he watched Hardy nearly drown only to allow him the meagerest of breaths, and then started again.

Really, that wasn’t as important.

What was important was the progression which, well, the books rarely detailed _that_ portion.

It didn’t take more than an hour for Charles to learn that Hardy was, well, a hard ass.

Stubborn.

Uncompromising.

And dedicated fully to his job.

  
His demeanor after the beatings yesterday proved it.

It was the one detail that took a little wind from his sails.

Yes, the bruises were nice, far more exact than before.

But no _payoff_.

Perhaps that’s why Charles zeroed in on a more mentally-focused method.

  
After so many sessions, Charles checked the can, sloshed its contents around.

The water slumped around audibly; the can was almost empty.

He heard a quiet groan behind him, and he dumped another stream onto his face.

He watched…then quirked an eyebrow.

“Growing tired, detective? I must say, you put up a better fight earlier.”

  
He pulled the towel and, hands deft, loosened and removed the face restraint.

  
This time, Hardy couldn’t pull himself fully upright.

He groaned and, instead, fell to the side and hung his face low.

He coughed and wheezed, shook and chattered.

He took tentative, short breaths.

He didn’t open his eyes.

“Seems at the minimum I’ve worn you out.” Noted Charles with a click of his teeth. “Can’t even sit yourself up, can you? And really now, you’re not _really_ drowning.”

He drew his fingers through Hardy’s hair.

“Now, none of that. The can still has water. Best not waste it.”

He clenched his hand and tugged, yanked Hardy’s head up.

  
“…please stop.”

  
Charles froze.

The voice was so small, so weak.

He almost didn’t recognize it.

He swiveled Hardy’s head to look him in the eyes.

  
Hardy finally opened his eyes and, well, there was more water.

The look in his gaze had changed in that half-hour, the eyes hollower and more broken.

 _That_ , at least, was familiar.

Charles had seen it plenty in the other girls.

  
“Might you repeat that, Detective Hardy? I didn’t quite catch that.”

  
Hardy’s mouth parted, a rickety movement like he feared water would pour into his mouth at any moment.

His voice was hoarse, cracking, raw.

“N-No more…please, no more.”

  
Charles examined his subject, ran his eyes up and down and watched the body movement.

He gave an experimental twist of the wrist.

Hardy’s head followed without resistance.

Christ, had he really broken him so easily?

So quickly?

“I might…consider stopping. If you gave me the chance, you’d see I’m a reasonable man. I can even let you go.” Charles mused.

His gaze darkened.

“But you must leave me be. You understand that. I leave you be; you leave me be. It’s quite equitable, and I promise to uphold my end of the bargain. And I’ll _know_ if you restart an investigation, and if you do…well, I’m more than happy to experiment further.”

Charles might’ve missed it if he weren’t so close.

But with Hardy literally at his mercy, he saw it.

A flicker of something…the _fight_ in Hardy’s heart.

Charles didn’t need his answer, but he waited anyways.

  
Hardy, lips thinned and shut, only shook his head and gave his best, defiant look.

  
“Oh. Well, what a shame.” Charles said before he slammed Hardy back against the chair.

  
Hardy gasped and, in a moment, Charles surged forward.

He took the towel and stuffed it partly into his throat.

“I gave you a choice, Hardy. See? You could’ve avoided this. I’ll _have_ my five. Even if _you’re_ the fifth, I’ll have it.”

One hand pressed against the towel, the other scrabbled for the watering can.

He gained purchased on it, lifted it, and dumped the last of its contents onto the towel.

  
His first hand gripped Hardy’s face, kept him from spitting the towel out or moving his head.

His other threw aside the watering can and settled for pinning Hardy’s shoulder to the chair.

Charles hadn’t bet on the fight; Hardy was such a slender man, he should weigh as much as a toothpick.

But how he _thrashed_ and _fought_.

Closer to a man three times his size.

A quick glance down at the restraints confirmed how hard Hardy was fighting; he’d rubbed his wrists raw enough to draw blood.

His captive screamed, shrieked muffled cries through the towel, tears mixing with the water.

All the while, Charles watched, considered.

Perhaps he should’ve experimented more with the first four.

He had killed them so quickly, and yet the slower methods, while labor intensive, yielded far more interesting results.

Yes, his fifth might be an improvement on the previous results.

  
He could meet his goal _and_ exceed expectations.

Oh, this would be a good year after all.

Of course, having the body in his basement would be challenging, but who said that meeting an annual goal was easy?

He’d mostly gotten away with the first four; a fifth should be easy enough.

  
There was a crash upstairs, the sounds of several footsteps.

The door to the basement slammed open, locks shattering as the basement filled with uniforms carrying batons, sprays and cuffs.

Three rushed to Charles alone, tackled him to the ground and cuffed his hands together.

He turned his head to the side; without his glasses, things were a mite foggy, but he could see just enough.

  
There was a woman, dressed in business clothes, who hovered around Hardy with fearful hands, who shouted at the policemen to ‘free Hardy at once’ and ‘get him to the A&E stat’.

She was also talking to him and was the one who removed the gag and tried to calm him.

“ _Ah, I forgot_.” Mused Charles. “ _Detectives usually come in pairs. I should’ve foreseen that._ ”

  
“ _Well, at the least I got my fun in. Sad that it was cut short, but I’m used to disappointment. It was nice to be self-employed while it lasted._ ”


	8. Please Rest, My Dear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 7 - Carrying
> 
> While completing work in Scotland, Aziraphale senses a demonic presence in England. What he finds is far worse.
> 
> [Continuation of Chapter #1 plz read first for context]
> 
> CW: blood, medical procedure (medieval w/ no research)

Aziraphale had been far off when he felt the first spikes of panic.

  
He’d been on assignment up in the Gaelic tribes, keeping an eye on the people and their lands, still foggy on the exact reasons why.

He supposed something big was coming up for their people; it was the only explanation.

He was in the middle of rounding up some lost sheep, guiding them with a shepherd’s staff, when it hit him.

Something akin to a wave, a shiver of _ice cold_ and the echoes of shrieks.

As well as faint prayers, pleas for guidance and help.

  
“O-Oh dear.” He stammered as he gathered himself.

He hadn’t felt something so strong in decades.

He reached out across the ethereal plane, across the other layer of reality that all angels (and he supposed, demons) had access to, the oft discussed “energies” of the universe.

The wave had created ripples that centered around a ground zero, south of Aziraphale.

  
In England, to be exact.

  
At the epicenter, there was the expected fear, cries for heavenly guidance.

But there was also a demonic signature, so faint he nearly missed it.

There was no mistaking it, though.

Something was happening in London, and a demon was at the center of it.

  
Aziraphale wasted no time; with a snap of his fingers, he vanished from the Scottish Highlands and reappeared outside London’s walls.

He made his way into the city which seemed as normal as ever, whatever could be considered normal in the 14th century.

He summoned one more miracle to change clothing, once he remembered he wore the distinctly Scottish attire that might be unwelcome in English territory, then followed the trail of fear and despair towards the center of town.

The trail grew stronger, the fear more odorous, until it ended at a church.

A church whose steps were swarming with people, nearly a hundred at least, all laid out and comforting one another, many weeping.

His hands went to a tassel on his cloak as he approached a guard, surrounded by at least three empty mugs, with a fourth he was nursing.

“Pardon me, sir, but I’m afraid I just arrived. What seems to be the trouble here? I’ve never seen such despair.”

  
The soldier looked up and Aziraphale staggered back.

The eyes he stared with were hollow, shaken.

He took a swig before he answered.

“I doubt that ye shall see such despair again in England’s lands, sir. Our troubles come from a man…or not a man. A _demon_.”

  
“A demon??” questioned Aziraphale.

  
“Yea. A condemned man sentenced to be drawn and quartered for treason. One of many today. I was the one to approach him, when the hangman partook his practice with much zealousness.”

  
“What did he do? The demon, that is?”

  
The man paled, then turned a shade of green.

He choked and swallowed, before chasing whatever arose with more booze.

“He damned us, condemned each soul to Hell, as he claimed we belonged. He unveiled his demonic majesty; a _snake_ , I believe. He hurled infestations of maggots and rats upon us and the gentry. I do not claim to have been brave; I fled with the others to the church. We now sit here in penance, to cleanse our souls if the lord shall have us.”

  
“I…I see.” Aziraphale reeled, blinked furiously. “I-I’m sorry, I believe you said…a _snake_?”

The guard nodded.

“Aye, I did. His maw stretched wide like a chasm, rimmed with jagged teeth. From there the insects and rodents came. His eyes were like hellfire.”

He looked down and stared at his mug.

“Perhaps I should’ve foreseen this. The man had the devil in his eyes. Never seen such eyes as his. It was an omen, I believe.”

  
“Y-Yes, this man, where is he now? Did you _kill_ him??” Aziraphale fingers fumbled and fidgeted with his tassels.

  
The man looked up, gaze curious, before he shook his head.

“Nay, we did not. Not that I believe. We ran before his last breath. If he hasn’t returned to his master, he would be by the Western wall.”

He lurched forward to seize Aziraphale’s sleeve.

“I beseech thee, good sir, to travel elsewhere for now. London shall not recover for some time, and until then I don’t imagine us much capable of entertaining visitors. And I _beseech_ thee further to avoid the Western wall. Lest your soul be claimed by the Devil.”

  
“I shall be careful. Thank you for your time, sir.” Aziraphale nodded and took back his sleeve.

As he departed, Aziraphale wasn’t sure whether to pass a miracle onto the crowd.

If he was right, these people tried to kill…well discorporate Craw – Crowley.

Yes, he was a demon.

Yes, if discorporated, he wouldn’t have an adversary for a few centuries.

Time free to spread good will and Her blessings.

  
Yet, the thought made his heart ache.

As if it knew that that time would be terribly lonely.

Though he himself would never acknowledge that.

  
Whatever he felt, his feet took him in the direction of the Western wall.

The stench hit his nose first, the awful scent of decay and rot, of meat decomposing and of human viscera.

Aziraphale, unfortunately, was quite familiar with the smell.

He could see, in the distance, the abandoned stage used for beheading, the sleds for transporting prisoners.

The gallows.

And one body dangling in the wind.

  
“Oh no.” Aziraphale paled.

His feet picked up the pace.

And against his better judgement, he ran.

Ran through mud churned by blood and unmentionables, past detritus and human remains and broken wood pieces, splattering and coating his boots.

Until he drew close enough to identify the hung body.

At which point, he skidded to a stop.

And stared in shock.

  
“ _Crowley_ …”

  
The demon, his longest adversary, acquaintance, even companion for brief periods through history, was unrecognizable.

His hair, long and fiery, now laid limp like a used rag, draped his face covered in so many stains of various origins.

He wore only a torn tunic, sleeves near completely ripped off.

What skin was exposed was either an angry red or bleak, grayish brown.

And then the _noose_.

In the cold, night air, the blood that coagulated around it glistened.

  
Aziraphale didn’t even check for guards; something told him none dared to patrol, not near an alleged demon.

His wings popped free and he fluttered upward, up level with the gallows’ horizontal beam and nearest to Crowley.

He miracled a knife and started to saw and slice through thick cording and fibers, his other hand gripping the rope below the incision.

The rope split and severed, the noose drawing tighter.

Just before the rope broke, Aziraphale noticed this and, reluctantly, left the rope go.

Crowley was in freefall for only a second.

Aziraphale dropped below him and scooped him into his arms.

  
Aziraphale fluttered and slid a foot away, his acquaintance safely against him.

“Crowley, are you still in there?” He fussed.

He brushed some hair, disconcertingly sticky, from Crowley’s face.

He pressed two fingers against Crowley’s pulse point and waited.

No pulse.

He searched further, beyond the pulse, for Crowley’s self.

His soul.

  
…

  
There.

Oh, but it was so faint.

Not dying, exactly, but seeping away like poured molasses.

“ _He’s discorporating._ ” Thought Aziraphale with a sigh.

It was a miracle he was still there at all, given what he’s been through.

Though…miracle might not be the proper word to use here.

  
Though suffocation alone was not enough to discorporate an angel or demon, the other effects of manual asphyxia (such as internal decapitation) certainly was.

Even a cursory glance at Crowley’s neck wounds (which Aziraphale was reluctant to give further attention to) confirmed that the rope’s impact ran deep.

The angle he’d found his body at too…slumped low, weight of gravity driven to the ground.

Surely, Crowley’s neck would’ve broken some time ago, wouldn’t it?

Thus, he should’ve discorporated hours ago.

  
But he was still here.

If only barely.

Aziraphale leaned close to listen to the demon’s breathing.

He shuddered; the sound was something unspeakable, rattling and wheezing at the same time.

Even in his almost sleep, it sounded painful.

Aziraphale’s heart ached at the thought, to be in such a state.

  
While his mind pondered the proper course of action.

  
He couldn’t heal him, no. To expend a miracle on a demon…Aziraphale couldn’t imagine the bollocking he’d receive upstairs.

That’s if healing him would be the best course of action, to which Aziraphale wasn’t sure.

So, it might be best for Crowley to discorporate.

Come back above some centuries later in a fresh, unhanged body.

Allow them both to forget the experience and, for Aziraphale, the sight.

But if Crowley hadn’t discorporated by now…how much longer?

And as an angel, would it be right to let him slowly die, to pass in agony?

Yet he couldn’t imagine ending Crowley’s form’s life, even out of mercy.

  
…either way, he knew that whatever choice was made, he wouldn’t let Crowley discorporate _here_.

Demon or not, no being deserved to die in such a place.

  
With that, Aziraphale stood and stretched his wings.

He drew them high and launched himself and Crowley into the night sky, vanished into the distance atop trees and endless fields, unseen by the shaken London.

  
[ _Almost_ unseen. There was one guard there, who witnessed the sight. He’d eventually recount it to a colleague of his, with connections to the artisan class. A skilled painter would paint this scene. And hundreds of years later, the piece, titled ‘The Hanged Man’s Reprieve’, would hang in a London museum, as some form of cosmic irony.]

Aziraphale flew over the endless forests and woods, eyes scanning the earth below, until he reached a clearing in the trees.

He dipped, lifted, and floated like a fallen leaf through the opening, boot tips first meeting the fresh grass.

His wings tucked away and, with it, much of the light of his grace.

The only illumination was the moon.

He surveyed the glade: a wide-ish circle of grass framed by ancient oak trees. The grass would be better called a meadow, flush with daisies, iris, primrose and poppy.

Few feet away ran a stream, bubbling and active, guarded by an elderly willow tree, whose leaves ghosted the clear water.

  
It was a lovely place, perfect for a picnic.

If only there would be a picnic.

  
For the first time since he took flight, Aziraphale let his gaze fall to his companion who’d…

…oh dear.

How was he looking _worse_?

Or perhaps, away from the dank ugliness of the execution yard, the devastation laid onto his form was clearer.

  
He was so still.

His skin was marked and marred by wounds and stains.

Aziraphale finally noticed the five lash marks across his face, uniform and bright red.

And his neck wound had only grown worse.

The noose was fully embedded.

To remove it, even to lay him to rest, would be an endeavor both physical and emotional.

  
Aziraphale sucked in a sharp breath.

Sighed.

Shuddered.

He picked a spot amidst a particularly lush grove of flowers.

And laid the demon down.

The flowers cradled the fading demon, the daisies forming a crown through his flowing red hair.

The pink poppies juxtaposed his pale skin.

The dandelions reminded Aziraphale of his eyes.

The irises bowed around the rips in his clothing and his limbs.

  
He was a sight.

And at it, Aziraphale fell to his knees.

…demons were angels, once.

Before they fell.

Aziraphale wondered, at least for Crowley, if he wasn’t so far removed from the host as he assumed.

  
Because him, laying amidst the flowers.

_Beautiful._

_Heave -_

  
Aziraphale bit his lip, shook his head, and closed his eyes.

The thought was inappropriate.

Not fit for an angel.

He opened his eyes, noted Crowley’s hands.

He started to lift one limb when he noticed the terrible burns, of rope and metal variety, across his wrists.

  
The shuddered breathing reached his ears once more.

“…I’m not sure _why_ you didn’t heal yourself.” Aziraphale said, voice barely a whisper. He gave a short glance skyward. “But I can’t, in conscience, let you be in pain. Wait here.”

He stood and walked to the babbling stream.

From his endless satchel (the one miracle he afforded himself) he pulled out a clay bowl and a rag.

He dipped the bowl and drew water, which he brought to Crowley’s side.

Rag wetted until he was satisfied, Aziraphale started with the wrist wounds, dislodging scabs and clotted blood.

From his bag he pulled out herbs which he added to the water.

He dunked the rag and ran the medicinal water across his wounds.

Once they were clean, he wrapped his wrists with cloth.

  
He moved upward, passed the noose for now because _that_ would be an undertaking he wasn’t prepared for, and reached for Crowley’s face.

Re-dipping the rag, he started to wash out the lash marks and clean the streaks of mud and, what looked like, juices.

  
At that touch, Crowley finally woke.

  
His eyes were wide, blinded by panic, as his hands scrabbled at the embedded noose, strangled noises spilling past his lips.

“Crowley! Crowley! Oh Crowley, please, try not to struggle!” pleaded Aziraphale as he fought to hold the demon down.

  
Crowley stared at the sky, breaths too sharp and too quick and puffed through the nose, as tears gathered at his eyes once more.

  
“It’s over. It’s over. I’ve brought you somewhere safer. Those…people won’t find you or hurt you again.”

  
The fear in Crowley’s eyes lifted, just a little.

Enough that his eyes, fully serpentine with near-oval pupils, fell to meet Aziraphale’s.

  
“There you are.” Aziraphale tried the smallest smile. “You remember me, don’t you? I don’t believe we’ve seen each other for a few centuries.”

  
Crowley didn’t respond. He only stared as the gathered tears slipped free.

  
“I-I’ll get that noose off you in a moment. I’m afraid if won’t be comfortable. Not at all.” Aziraphale slowed his preparations, his gathering of supplies from his satchel. “…it might be enough to let you discorporate, my dear.”

  
Crowley didn’t fuss, didn’t argue or roll his eyes while accusing Aziraphale of dramatics.

No, none of the things Aziraphale expected, or wished to hear.

Instead, he simply let his eyes flutter half-shut, color drained and gaze so weary, so tired.

He wanted to be done.

  
At that, Aziraphale felt his heart start to crack.

He kept his face low as he laid out the instruments: medicine was still in an experimental phase, but he’d make do.

“I promise to make this as quick as possible.”

  
He gave Crowley a wooden spoon to bite upon as he started with a wood slat, thin and long enough to hopefully slip between the rope and wound.

The slightest movement already pulled a pained gasp from Crowley, which built into high-pitched whines and cries as Aziraphale pried rope from skin.

With a length of rope a few inches long freed, Aziraphale sawed until it formed two halves, which he took with a hand each.

This, he knew, was the worst part.

“I’m sorry, Crowley.”

  
And he pulled, yanked the rope from his neck.

Crowley howled, convulsed and bucked, his fangs sinking into the spoon.

  
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry – “Aziraphale begged as the rope was freed, piece by piece, leaving streaks of blood and so many layers of skin sanded off.

  
As the rope was removed, Crowley’s screams died out, his convulsions stopped.

He laid still, white as a sheet, even as Aziraphale removed the last of the noose.

  
Aziraphale gave the noose only a single, disgusted look, filled with the fury only an angel could muster.

He threw it, and it burst into flames, reduced to cool ash before it hit the dirt.

  
Aziraphale finally sat straight, aware finally of the tremors seizing his body, his blood-drenched hands.

He left Crowley just long enough to wash them in the stream.

He returned, still shaking but less furiously, and pulled out a length of cloth.

As he wrapped Crowley’s neck, he felt for Crowley’s soul once more.

  
To his shock, it was still there.

Still ebbing free.

  
“Oh, dear, I’m sorry you were here for all that.” Aziraphale gasped.

  
Crowley didn’t answer.

  
Aziraphale wondered how much longer his body would hold on.

He wondered still as he cleaned the last of the blood and mud from Crowley’s body.

His work finally finished as he felt the night press towards morning, the first streaks of orange breaking through twilight.

Thoroughly exhausted, he sagged over his patient, who hadn’t moved since he removed the noose.

Not that he blamed him; the experience had been taxing for them both, but especially for Crowley.

He checked again for Crowley’s soul and found it still there, barely dimmer than it had earlier.

  
“ _Hopefully you’ll fully discorporate by the end of the day._ ” Aziraphale thought as he brushed Crowley’s hair aside. “ _Until then, I’ll watch over you. Your…guardian angel of sorts._ ”

He might’ve smirked at the idea if he wasn’t so tired.

His wings unfurled and draped over Crowley like a canopy.

“ _I only hope this is the end of your suffering._ ”

  
\--

Sadly, for Crowley, it wasn’t.

  
Because he didn’t discorporate at the end of the day.

  
Nor the day after that.

  
Or the day after that.

  
All the while, Aziraphale held his vigil, wings extended as a shield from sunlight, rain, wind and what have you.

With time, his wings grew sore, aching.

Leaves threaded themselves through his feathers.

Pollen dusted and tinged them yellow.

Distantly, he wondered if soon, moss would grow.

Either on himself or his wings.

  
He’d only stand when necessary to stretch his wings and limbs.

Otherwise, he held his vigil.

He was a principality, after all.

This was what he was built for: protecting others.

  
But he wasn’t emotionless.

As the days passed, his despair only grew.

Never, _never_ has he heard of a discorporation that took this long.

Each day he checked.

And each day, Crowley’s soul remained.

Yet he didn’t move, didn’t truly heal (daily he changed the bandaging and, daily, he’d balk at how freshly the wounds still bled).

Didn’t speak.

Just slept.

  
And all Aziraphale could do was wonder _why_.

Wonder why and keep his vigil.

  
He’d lost count of the days when he heard the footsteps.

He was shaken from his latest round of contemplation, of whether to hasten Crowley’s prolonged discorporation.

His head shot up and he flared his grace, only glancing away once when he heard a moan from the demon.

  
“Principality, why do you inhabit these woods?”

  
From the shadows came a man, dressed in ornate clothes of black, his eyes glimmering in the shade.

  
Aziraphale shivered, wings dipping only a little as he stared.

“You’re Famine.”

“I am.” Famine grinned shark-like teeth.

  
“W-What…what brings you to England?”

  
“I am to bring out a wonderful onslaught of rain and cold, one that will destroy the crops and starve the populace. It is on them; they have bred like rabbits for far too long.”

  
“How delightful.”

  
Famine cocked a glance at Aziraphale, which drifted down to Crowley.

“And what about you, angel? Who is your charge there?”

  
Aziraphale’s eyes widened. He drew Crowley closer to him.

“H-He is dying. I’m simply seeing him off.”

  
“That is no mortal man. You’re guarding a _demon_.” Famine sneered. “And even I can smell that he isn’t dying. Nay, he is to leave his physical form and return to Hell, am I right?”

  
Aziraphale faltered, his shoulders fell.

His next words stumbled out before he considered the weight of them.

“H-H-He’s been like this for only She knows so long now. Days, _weeks_ maybe? I’ve lost count. Oh, no discorporation has taken so long! I-I don’t understand! You say he isn’t dying, but…but why hasn’t he left his body? If he doesn’t want to discorporate, then why isn’t he healing himself?” He blurted, eyes watering.

  
Famine’s gaze softened, shark grin lightening.

He approached, slipped through the grasses like satin, crouched low and extended a hand above Crowley.

  
Aziraphale flared his wings and glared.

  
“I have no interest in taking your demon, angel.”

  
“Oh, h-he isn’t _my_ demon – “

“Neither you nor he require sustenance. Thus, have nothing of my influence.” Famine interrupted. “Consider this the one thing I do out of what goodness I have.”

His eyes shut and he sniffed, long and deep.

He paused, drew back onto his feet, and hummed with a nod.

“Mmm, yes. Yes, I see. He is discorporating. Has been for some time, that you are right. But in his state, he shall never pass fully without assistance.”

  
“W-What?? But, h-how…why…”

  
“It seems a cap has been placed on his powers. Not enough to allow himself to heal on his own. Thus, he would normally discorporate, but another loophole was added.”

He scrunched his nose.

“ _This_ was from one signature. Whose, I do not know, but it is keeping his soul trapped. He cannot discorporate or heal to full strength. He may try, but never succeed. Thus, he remains trapped in this crippled form.”

  
“Oh…oh _god_.” Aziraphale’s hand flew to his mouth, as if to catch his blaspheme.

  
Famine turned and started to walk away.

  
“W-Wait. I cannot _leave_ him like this. W-What am I to do?”

Famine looked over his shoulder as his sharkish grin continued.

“I imagine that you’re intelligent, angel. There be only two choices: either you heal his wounds, repair his body so his soul may remain,”

He shrugged.

“or you kill the body. Finish the punishment upon his soul. No demonic power can prevent a soul from returning to Hell if their mortal form is destroyed. He will be freed and, should Hell allow it, he’ll return to you in time.”

  
Aziraphale went pale.

“B-But, but I – “

  
“Your choice alone. Farewell, Principality.”

  
At that, Famine dove into the shadows and faded away.

  
Aziraphale sunk, watched the space where Famine once stood.

Then, finally he looked at Crowley, who laid unmoving as always.

His eyes remained fixed on him even as his hand fumbled, shaking, for his satchel.

It dug around until he found it: a simple, long dagger.

Fashioned just for him by a blacksmith friend, built lightweight and easy to maneuver.

  
In his hands, laid flat, nothing felt heavier.

  
He gripped the hilt as the other cleared the hair from Crowley’s face one last time.

Then, it joined the hand around the hilt, the blade wavering and trembling.

He hoisted it high, aimed the tip at Crowley’s chest, right at his heart.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

Arms shook like nothing else.

Strained under the pressure.

He prepared.

  
Aziraphale gasped.

His body near collapsed on himself as he threw the blade as far away as possible.

“I’m sorry Crowley. I can’t. I _can’t_.”

He buried his face in his hands as he cried.

How pathetic.

He was built a soldier, a protector, a guardian.

  
And yet he can’t discorporate one demon.

  
His hands fell away once he cried himself dry.

He wiped his face across his sleeve and watched the sleeping demon.

He pulled away the cloth bandaging.

The wounds were still raw, red and bleeding.

On their own, he couldn’t guess how long it’d take for them to heal, if they’d heal at all.

  
…

  
He supposed there was never a decision to be made.

Only an action prolonged by his fear, of Heaven, of something else that he’d yet to name.

But he’d swallow it.

He extended a hand, laid it gently on Crowley’s chest.

He summoned his strength, whispered a gentle prayer.

Light streamed and pooled into Crowley.

  
The demon inhaled, breathed full and deep, as the light pulsed through him, sealing wounds and clearing infection and blood.

He uttered the smallest whimper, a whine of discomfort.

The lashes on his face faded away, left his skin unmarked.

When Aziraphale finished, he lifted his hand.

Crowley sighed and fell back low, in deep sleep.

Aziraphale peeled away the bandaging and checked.

Indeed, other than some scarring, Crowley was healed.

  
Aziraphale sighed with relief, brushed a tear away.

“Thank goodness. You’ll be alright.”

He stood, looked nervously at the heavens.

There’d be a summons for him soon.

Questions about this miracle.

They would know he healed a demon.

At worst, maybe Gabriel or another archangel would come down in person.

  
He couldn’t be nearby if that happened.

As much as he hated to leave him.

  
Aziraphale crouched down one last time, moved Crowley’s hands so they folded atop his chest.

Gave a small smile.

“Sleep well. Hopefully we’ll meet again in better circumstances.”

  
Then he stretched his wings and disappeared into the sky.

  
\--

  
Crowley woke up the next day, early in the morning.

  
He blinked away sleep and dust from his eyes, stretched and cracked his neglected limbs.

Sniffed and sneezed at the pollen gathered around him.

Scratched at the rough fabric around his neck.

…his _neck_.

  
He shot upright and ripped the bandaging away.

Pressed careful fingers against his neck.

  
…nothing.

No blood, no wounds, no remnant of the rope.

  
A glance at his wrists, chest and ankles gave the same response.

  
He blinked slowly, tried to sift through his memories.

They were foggy, to say the least.

He had no clue of how much time had passed.

Or where he was.

  
He knew it was a forest, that was obvious.

He also felt that he was still in England.

The last thing he remembered, however, was hanging from the gallows.

And the sound of rope snapping.

  
And…white.

Aziraphale?

  
He thought he’d dreamt it: a figure in white guarding over him, glowing like candlelight.

A glance around said he was the only one around.

Except, there was something.

Out of place in the green.

Crowley crawled over and plucked it free.

  
A feather, long, pearly white.

Too large for any bird.

  
Could only belong to one person.

  
At that, he smiled.

He kept the feather in hand as he, warily, summoned a demonic miracle.

His powers were still so weak.

He supposed that hadn’t changed.

But he had enough to give himself fresh, new clothes, a copy of his previous outfit.

  
He tucked the feather into one of his pockets.

And went on his way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this got of hand lol but at least there was comfort in this whumptober?


	9. Implosion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 8 - Isolation
> 
> Set between S1 and S2, after Joe's arrest. Ellie is left in the aftermath, dealing with the loss of everything that was normal.
> 
> She's never felt so alone.
> 
> CW: emetophobia (very slight), depression, disordered eating (sort of)

“ _It was Joe._ ”

  
Three words.

It took only three words to shatter twelve years of marriage.

A happy family.

A community’s sense of togetherness.

_Her_ reality.

  
The definition of normal.

  
All gone in an instant.

  
With no time to pick up the pieces, to process.

  
Not that there’d ever be enough time to adjust.

There wasn’t enough time in the world.

  
Though it wouldn’t stop Ellie from wishing there was.

  
So much change.

_Too_ much at once.

But it was all inevitable.

  
She couldn’t stay at the CID, couldn’t keep her position.

Not that she wouldn’t be supported; Jenkinson and Hardy had her back.

But not everyone there was them.

In the last days she spent there, all she felt were eyes.

Eyes of her coworkers, the ones that only two months ago she’d handed knick-knacks and souvenirs to.

Now the same ones that looked, either with pity, or with suspicion.

  
_How could you not have known?_

_  
_She turned in her resignation by the end of the week.

Applied for a PC position in a neighboring precinct.

Far below her skill level and pay grade, but she didn’t want to even _touch_ detective work.

Not now.

Maybe the monotony of traffic patrol would prove healing.

Part of her knew it wouldn’t.

  
_How could you not have known?_

_  
_She laid across her couch, blanket half-draped over her, half splayed on the floor.

Unfolded laundry surrounded her, carpeted the floor.

Across the room, Freddie played with his toys.

Rammed his toy ambulance into a teddy bear.

Blew little raspberries and babbled to himself.

It pulled the smallest smile from her.

Through it all, at least one thing hadn’t changed.

Freddie was still her little boy, still needed her.

He at least could remain blissfully unaware of what happened.

  
_Until he grows up_.

  
Her smile vanished.

Her mind flitted back to Tom; the disbelieving look he gave to her.

Mouth screaming accusations; surely, she and Hardy messed up?

Or, Hardy had framed Joe?

He read the Beacon; he’s aware of Hardy’s reputation.

Thus, a set-up was the _only_ thing that made sense.

If only.

  
When she didn’t back down, continued to support Hardy’s findings, the _look_ from Tom.

From disbelief to disdain.

From grief to rage.

He made his decision to live with his aunt.

  
_You’re wrong! How come we couldn’t tell?_

_It should’ve been obvious!_

_How could you not have known?_

_  
_A toy clattered and pulled Ellie from her memories.

Freddie started to pout, to whimper, as his thumb reddened.

  
“Oh, Fred.” She cooed as she pulled herself from the couch. “Come here. Mum’s got you.”

She scooped Freddie into her arms, tried to give his thumb a kiss.

  
The toddler, however, fussed.

Mumbled unintelligible babbles.

Only after a fit allowed Ellie to kiss his boo-boo.

  
_Because Joe stayed home with him, not you._

_He misses Joe._

_He wants Joe more than you._

  
She bit hard on her lip, forced the thoughts away.

She tucked Freddie against her and bobbed him, hummed a wordless tune as she held him.

  
Freddie, in response, sneezed all over her shirt.

  
“Oh dear. Who’s got a messy nose?”

She cleaned up the toddler in half a minute and, now free of snot, he immediately reached for the toys again.

So, she set him down, let him get back to his play.

Surveyed the room covered in half-finished chores.

  
…

She lumbered back to the couch.

Laid down again.

Stared at the wall.

  
…

She considered, at one point, treating herself to a night out.

A chance to heal, perhaps connect with friends.

Rebuild a life, a new one, for Ellie Miller, grown woman.

Not Ellie Miller, mother.

Or detective.

Or ex-wife of a mur –

  
No.

It’d be Ellie Miller.

  
It occurred to her, as she started looking up cafes and bars, that her first choice to go out with was Beth.

Beth.

Someone who hated her guts right now.

Who thought she knowingly concealed a child murderer and predator.

Who allowed her son to be killed.

  
She closed her laptop soon after that.

  
_How could you not have known?_

  
She soon realized she didn’t want to deal with going out anyways.

The town knew her.

Everyone knew Ellie Miller.

That used to be so wonderful.

  
Now she craved anonymity.

  
The eyes followed her, down the streets, to the shops, to the shores, to the office.

The same looks, the same eyes.

Pity.

Empathy.

Suspicion.

Accusation.

  
_HOW COULD YOU NOT HAVE KNOWN_?

  
She stayed in.

Going out was expensive anyways.

That was weeks ago.

  
She wondered if, eventually, she’d fade into the couch.

Sink.

Become one with it.

Let Ellie Miller, human, fade away.

Disappear.

Perhaps it’d be for the better.

  
But Fred needed her.

And Tom –

  
…

  
She felt so empty these days.

There wasn’t a spot in the house untouched by Joe.

Unmarred by memories of happier times, _lies_ of happier times.

The hallway where Tom took his first steps; Joe was at the camera’s helm.

The kitchen where they’d brew coffee in the morning, get distracted.

Devolve into kisses, teetering before the kids would bound in.

The yard where he’d watch over their sons as they grew.

The bedroom.

The front stoop.

The fucking unpainted walls.

  
_Everywhere_.

He was _everywhere_.

  
And Ellie could be nowhere.

  
_HOW COULD YOU NOT HAVE KNOWN_.

  
Some part of her wondered if she did know.

It had to be obvious, hadn’t it?

Something so depraved, it should’ve been painted across his face.

There was an image, a stereotype she had, of criminals like that.

Joe had fit none of it.

Had that been enough to fool her?

And if so, what kind of a detective was she?

Shouldn’t she have seen through it all?

And what kind of a _mother_ was she, to allow such a man near her children?

To let him care for them?

Tuck them in at night?

Her stomach gurgled angrily; Ellie groaned and took sharp breaths.

  
She wasn’t keen on throwing up right now.

Though there wouldn’t be much to throw up.

  
…

When had she eaten last?

  
Yesterday?

  
The day before that?

  
…she didn’t care.

  
…

  
She missed his hugs.

Hugs.

_We only hugged!_

_  
_Scrambling to her feet, she scurried to the bathroom, slammed the door without care for the wall.

She gripped the toilet, bowed her head, and heaved.

Spat.

Gasped for air.

Spat again.

Sucked in a breath -

…

  
Stomach emptied, she flushed the yuck away and staggered back out.

Her feet dragged against the hardwood, caught on the edges and seams.

She clung to the walls.

When she returned to the living room, Fred was still occupied with his toys.

As if nothing happened.

  
She watched him.

Her eyes watered.

She fell back against the couch.

  
…

  
The house was so silent with just the two of them.

Not even a toddler could fill such a looming space.

Was it always this cold too?

“ _Joe fixed the heater last –_ “

  
She forced her eyes shut, shuddered.

  
“ _No. No more._ ”

  
She fell onto her side again.

Didn’t bother with the blanket.

Laid still.

Tried, and failed, to drift to sleep.

  
…

  
There was a knock at her door.

  
Her eyes widened.

She didn’t move.

She waited.

  
There was no voice, no follow-up knock.

Faintly, she thought she heard footsteps walking away from her house.

  
Then, two minutes later, a text.

She fished her mobile off the coffee table.

  
From Hardy.

“ _Check your stoop._ ”

  
She frowned.

Let the mobile fall from her hand.

She waited, stalled.

She didn’t want to stand up.

Eventually, however, she forced herself to.

Dragged herself, blanket draped over her shoulders, to the door.

She unlocked the brand new, high security locks, and creaked open the door.

Glanced down.

  
On her mat sat a metal thermos.

A plastic takeaway container with fish and chips.

And a box of chocolates.

Not fancy chocolates: he’d clearly gotten them from a Tesco or someplace similar.

But chocolates all the same.

  
She crouched down, gathered the offerings in her arms.

Her eyes darted around her yard, looking for him.

But he was nowhere to be seen.

  
She wasn’t sure if she was disappointed or not.

  
Closing the door with her heel, she fumbled the gifts onto her table and sat back down.

  
Her mobile buzzed again.

“ _Tea in the thermos. Drink it. Don’t let it get cold._ ”

  
Her brows knit together.

She shot off a response.

“ _Pushy git._ ”

  
It buzzed.

“ _Have you eaten today?_ ”

“ _Pot meet kettle_ ”

  
“ _I’ll eat if you eat._ ”

  
She paused, lingered.

He sent her a photo.

A picture of an honest to god meal, not just a salad: some sort of pasta dish, cup of soup, and tea.

“ _To prove I’m not lying_.”

She cooled, fingers tapped furiously at the screen.

“ _Why are you fussing over me?_ ”

  
Mobile buzzed.

“ _To make sure you’re okay._ ”

  
“ _Im fine_ ”

  
“ _Lucy told me you’ve been ignoring her calls._ ”

  
She glared at the screen.

“ _Are you snooping on me?!_ ”

“ _I asked after you._ ”

  
Ellie didn’t respond.

She glared at the mobile’s screen, squeezed between her hands.

The three dots cycled for a moment.

  
Then, another message.

“ _You want company_ ”

  
Three words.

Another three words.

This time, it pierced through the fog.

Through the thick weight that had spread across her, crushed her.

Affixed her to the couch.

The screen started looking blurry.

  
Another message.

“ _Okay if not_ ”

  
She sniffed, face strained and lips thin.

She gritted her teeth, exhaled sharply.

Sank.

Sniffed again.

  
“ _Do u even have Tupperware? You’ll have to pack up your lunch_.”

  
The mobile buzzed.

“ _There’s plenty in the office._ ”

  
That pulled the smallest tick of a smile.

“ _You stealing now? Those belong to other people._ ”

  
“ _If they wanted them, they wouldn’t leave them for weeks._ ”

  
“ _Not endearing yourself to them, Hardy_ ”

  
“ _Who said I was trying?_ ”

  
She snorted, laughed, her first laugh since this whole hell started.

The thought of Hardy, her ex-boss, the grumpy hardened detective, sneaking about and stealing her coworkers’ Tupperware.

Well, it sent her into a fit.

Her laughs mixed with tears, transitioned to shaking shoulders and strained noises, as the pressure popped off, and the emotions bottled within her started to spill.

  
Of course, of bloody _course_ Hardy would send her into such a state.

He’d started it all.

…no.

That wasn’t fair.

After all, he was one of the few who were checking on her.

She plucked the mobile back up.

“ _I hate –_ “

Delete.

“ _Stop w the soppy –_ “

Delete.

“ _Thank you I need –_ “

Delete.

  
Her mobile buzzed.

“ _So, you want company?_ ”

  
She stared at the message.

She wiped away her tears.

Thought.

Then replied.

  
“ _Fine. But return the Tupperware when you’re through w it._ ”

  
“ _No promises_ ”

  
“ _You knob_ ”

  
“ _Old material, Miller_ ”

  
She smirked, smiled, her first real smile in weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so not exactly traditional isolation but guess more emotional whump?? w happy ending


	10. Ritual Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 9 - Ritual Sacrifice
> 
> Crowley has been missing for days. Aziraphale received assistance from an unlikely source.
> 
> CW: dead animals, blood, referenced torture

“ _Prinzzzipality_.”

  
  
Aziraphale, so lost in his work, exhausted to an extent he had not felt in centuries, nearly missed the other voice.

If he hadn’t recognized the other voice, he might’ve even ignored them.

  
He’d spent the last few days deep in his books, all about demonic rituals and summoning, looking for a trace of anything he could use, anything at all.

  
Because Crowley had gone missing.

And not just ‘not answering his mobile’ missing.

Truly _missing_.

As in Aziraphale couldn’t sense him anywhere on Earth or elsewhere.

  
And after everything with the Apocalypse-averted?

That was _terrifying_.

He’d wondered, at first, if Heaven or Hell had taken their revenge, and Crowley was held prisoner in one of the two spaces, tortured and imprisoned as bait or as retaliation.

But he hadn’t sensed him in either place.

Which, while reassuring in one sense, was unsettling in another.

Because Aziraphale hadn’t the foggiest where he’d be otherwise.

  
Maybe now he could get some answers.

  
His head snapped up, glasses tumbling off his nose, eyes framed by dark circles.

  
Beezlebub grimaced.

“You look more like _my_ lot.” They noted. “Not zzzzzzo becoming of you.”

  
“What do you want.” Aziraphale said, patience waning.

  
“ _Not_ what I want, angel.” They hissed. “What I need. I need…your assizzzztance. With matterz of importance to me and you.”

  
“Apologies, but not interested. I’m terribly busy.”

  
“I zzzzaid it’z important to you too!” flared Beezlebub. “And how dare you treat me like a lowly grub!”

“The last time I heard about you, you had attempted to execute Crowley. Forgive me for not feeling so charitable.” Aziraphale frowned.

  
“Hrm, then if you might, conzzzzider this an…apology. The bezzzt I can give you.” Beezlebub gritted out.

Aziraphale glowered over his books.

He frowned, lowered his eyes.

“Very well. What do you want?”

  
Beezlebub crossed their arms and leaned on a bookcase.

“I know where the demon Crowley izz. I need your help to retrieve him.”

  
The pen fell from Aziraphale’s hand.

“Wha…you do. But how – “

  
“A Prince of Hell hazzz more powerz than a lowly Principality.” Beezlebub explained, before tracking back. “By that I mean I have connectionzzzz. I can senzzze when humanzz try to contact myself and other forces of Hell. And a rather large call was made lately.”

  
“Take me to him.” Aziraphale stood. “Please.”

  
Beezlebub ushered Aziraphale over with a finger gesture.

  
“And if you dare lay a finger on Crowley or myself – “

  
“Azzz if I could harm either of you.” Growled Beezlebub. “Do not remind me, angel. I’d rather forget that embarrassing ordeal. Do not mention it again and I’ll leave you both unharmed.”

  
Beezlebub placed a hand on Aziraphale’s arm and they vanished.

  
\--

  
A second later both entities reconstituted far from the bookshop, deep someplace Aziraphale found unfamiliar.

  
His head spun, unprepared for the sudden teleportation, and he wobbled in his step.

“I-I’ll be alright in a moment.” He mumbled.

  
“I didn’t azzzzk.”

  
Aziraphale closed his eyes, let the stars blink away, before he tried to look again.

All around him, in all directions, were pine trees.

“Are we…this isn’t England.”

  
“How azzzztute of you.”

  
Aziraphale shot them a look.

  
“These are the Appalachians. Part of the United Statezzzzz. Your demon is in the handzzzz of some Americans.” Beezlebub grimaced.

  
“Not terribly far off then.” Aziraphale looked for any identifying marks, but there was nothing but forest. “Why couldn’t I sense him then?”

“Follow me and you’ll see.” Beezlebub started off, stepping over fallen branches and through bushes.

  
Aziraphale followed close behind.

  
They waded through bushes, passed under low-limbed trees and sloshed through mud puddles, all while the chilling air bit at their exposed skin.

Aziraphale braced a hand against a tree and drew away when he touched something sticky.

He glanced at his hand; it was stained red.

His eyes trailed up.

  
Across the trunk, marked by a crucified squirrel, was an ancient rune.

_Demon_.

  
“Oh…oh dear.” He mumbled.

  
Beezlebub glanced behind them.

“Have you dealt with many cultzzzz, Principality?”

  
“A few here or there. Not for a few centuries, however.” Aziraphale replied automatically, still staring at the tree.

  
“For the better then. Thizzz is a doomsday cult. The least pleazzzant of the bunch. Have you crozzzzed one before?”

  
“Erm, once, I believe. Sometime during the Black Plague there was one.” Aziraphale finally pulled his gaze away. “I’m a bit surprised you find them unpleasant too.”

  
“I could care lezzzz about their ceremonies. They’re bullshit regardless.” Beezlebub shrugged. “What I _don’t_ like izzz their offerings. It makes a mess out of the council room.”

  
“Offerings. The dead animals? I thought, well, animal souls are on the complicated side – “

  
“Yes, we receive them. It stinkzzzz up the place and we need no help with that.” Grumbled Beezlebub. “But not just them. The _human soulzzz_ are the issue.”

  
They continued walking along, following the trees covered with dead animals nailed to their trunks, sigils and runes drawn in blood.

There was a path now, tread low by many boots, that at least saved them the trouble of stomping through brush and thorns.

Though the new décor was barely a better alternative.

Something crunched beneath Aziraphale’s foot.

He lifted and looked.

Blanched.

It was a human femur, snapped in twain.

  
“…and the sacrificed humans, oh _Satan_ they are a nightmare. Too good to be condemned but contractually they belong to uzzzz. The paperwork is awful; your lot would send representativezzz to rescue them and _that_ has it’z own paperwork and proceedingzzzz – “

  
“So, this one. This cult.” Aziraphale fussed with his waistcoat. “They sacrificed _humans_ then?”

  
Beezlebub stopped. They neared a secluded clearing.

“Not _just_ humanzzz.” They said, voice softening.

  
Aziraphale frowned, brows furrowed.

Paused.

Then it clicked.

And his face drained of blood.

  
“Oh…oh no.” He trembled.

  
He pushed past Beezlebub, who made no move to stop him, and ran through the last branches and into the clearing.

  
At the sight, he fell to his knees.

  
It had all the hallmarks of a traditional cult sacrifice: more dead animals, more blood, now with a demon trap drawn in the dirt in same blood. Skulls of deer and other animals littered the dirt. Torn robes and cloaks laid around the soil, streaked with smoke and ash.

There were more demons in the area, the two dukes and a lord of Hell.

There was one more demon, the only one not standing.

  
Crowley, laying prone, was in the center of the trap.

…

  
He was, to put it lightly, a mess.

His hair was matted, thick with blood and sweat, and stuck out in all directions.

His clothes were torn and ripped, the skin exposed gashed, bruised and burned.

His eyes, fully yellow and serpentine, remained fixed on the sky, glassy and unseeing.

He had yet to move.

And his _wings_ –

  
Aziraphale could’ve thrown up; they were _destroyed_.

The only blessing was that the primaries were intact.

The same could not be said for most of the plumage, or his bones.

No, oh no, no his wings.

Wings should not look like knotted tree roots, but that’s what his looked like.

  
Aziraphale’s hand flew over his mouth, to stop either the sounds that might’ve spilled forth or his lunch.

Or both.

He really wasn’t sure at this point.

  
Beezlebub arrived from the bush soon after and, unless Aziraphale was mistaken, gave a look that was almost sympathetic to him.

  
“Well? Is he gonna help us or not? Or is he gonna bawl on the ground for eternity?” spat Hastur, who looked itching to get his hands on Crowley.

  
“Silence, Hastur. He promised to help us, and he will. Lezzzzt he faces our wrath.” Beezlebub frowned.

  
“H-How long – “

  
“Since we arrived.” Answered Dagon, arms crossed and expression bored. “ _They_ were like that too. Not us. Wish it was.”

  
Aziraphale glanced at the discarded robes and noticed, belatedly, the piles of ash beneath each one.

The streaks of charred ground originated, were the thinnest, from the middle of the circle.

“… _Crowley_ did this?”

  
“Seems in character.” Muttered Ligur who, nonetheless, stood the farthest from the demon trap.

  
“It’s how we found him.” Explained Beezlebub. “The Dark Council senzzzzed a demonic shockwave unprecedented in size. It appearzzzz _Crowley_ wazzz the source.”

  
Aziraphale glanced again at the robes.

If they were responsible for Crowley’s condition…well, not likely ‘if’, they were at fault, then Aziraphale wasn’t feeling too sorry for them.

He swallowed and drew himself onto his feet.

“And…can none of you enter the trap? None of you can free him?”

“It’s a _demon trap_ , featherhead. Of course, we can’t.” hissed Hastur.

  
“Watch your tongue or I’ll cut it off, Hastur.” Beezlebub snapped.

  
“So, that’s why you need me.” Aziraphale noted. “But why? Why…isn’t this a good thing? I heard Crowley was a traitor of yours.”

  
“You’d think. But no.” Beezlebub crossed their arms. “He was sacrificed prezzzzumably to us, but that trap keeps us from collecting him. Pull him from the circle and we can fulfill the contract.”

  
“And why would I do that for you? Just a year ago you wanted to destroy the world. Why in the _world_ should I trust you?” Aziraphale flared.

  
Beezlebub gave the angel a look.

“Becauzzze, either you trust us, or you never get your demon back. We won’t leave until hizzz soul is collected, one way or another.” They answered.

  
Aziraphale’s lips thinned.

His eyes flitted to the other demons.

Dagon watched him expectantly; Hastur was trying to ignore the situation; Ligur remained uneasy in the corner.

He sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose.

“If you move a muscle, try to harm Crowley in any way – “

“What, do you need a deal to be azzzzzzured? Becauzzze I am more than willing to oblige.” Beezlebub even extended a hand in offering.

  
“No. No, that will _not_ be necessary.” Aziraphale huffed as he tugged his lapels. “But I will keep an eye on all of you.”

  
“Fine with us.” Dagon piped up.

  
Aziraphale side-eyed the other demons, watched their postures and hands, but saw nothing concerning.

He chewed his lip.

“…very well.”

He turned and approached the demon trap.

Gulped.

He twiddled his fingers at the outer barrier.

There was the barest response of something, but no resistance.

He closed his eyes and stepped inside.

  
There was a short, sharp hum, a light chime.

But nothing else.

  
Aziraphale opened his eyes, shook out his limbs, and ensured he was still in one piece.

Yup, everything accounted for.

  
The demons watching him stared with a level of disdain.

Other than Beezlebub, whose expression remained constant.

  
Aziraphale backed slowly, eyes fixed on the demons.

He crouched and felt behind him, stopped as his fingers grazed the remnants of Crowley’s jeans.

His pupils shrunk a little when he heard the first sound from Crowley: a strained groan.

He looked behind for a split-second.

Oh…oh dear.

  
It was so much worse up close.

  
Now he could see that the red on Crowley’s face _wasn’t_ just gashes, but paint.

Paint of another sigil.

_Damnation_.

There was another on his chest.

_Apocalypse_.

  
“Hurry up, Principality. We don’t have all day.” Snipped Dagon.

  
Aziraphale’s eyes lifted, brow lowering and knitting together.

He wiggled his fingers; he still had his powers, even within the devil trap.

He made up his mind.

Sliding his hands beneath Crowley, he lifted and cradled the demon with the kindest of care he could muster, though no movement could’ve been painless.

He turned to face Beezlebub once more, his friend now safe with him.

“Good. Now bring him outside the circle and his soul will be collected.”

  
Aziraphale nodded, took slow steps towards the circle’s outer circumference, eyes darting between Beezlebub and the three other demons.

“I thank you all for upholding your end of the bargain.” Aziraphale said, a bit louder than necessary. “And I thank you, Lord Beezlebub, for bringing me to Crowley.”

His toe grazed the edge of the trap.

“But I must advise you that you will not have Crowley’s soul today.”

The second shoe grazed.

“Or any day after this.”

  
“What are you saying, Principality?”

  
Aziraphale grinned, almost giddily.

“I’m saying…so long, _suckers_!”

He stepped out of the trap.

  
And instantly vanished in a burst of light, with Crowley in tow.

  
He reappeared in the bookshop, teetered as he bumped against his desk.

He hustled to the couch and laid Crowley as carefully as he could before he went about his next task: shoring up the wards to ensure that no demon, not even demonic _princes_ , could enter without severely regretting their choices.

As he traced the last sigil, the last rune, he sighed as the adrenaline died down.

He gave one last look over, one last glance.

One last listen for the tell-tale sounds of demonic powers.

  
Minutes passed.

But there was nothing.

  
It seemed they’d gotten away rather, surprisingly, cleanly.

Aziraphale wasn’t in the mood to question such a blessing.

  
He had a demon to attend to, after all.

  
“Crowley, oh dear,” Aziraphale finally rushed back to the couch, knelt by Crowley’s side, and ran a hand through tangled hair. “oh, my dear, are you with me? Please, if you can, say something.”

  
Crowley shivered, trembled, uttered a wordless moan.

One eye creaked open, still foggy with pain.

“A-Angel…”

  
Aziraphale smiled, uttered a shuddered gasp of relief, as a tear crossed his cheek.

“Oh, thank goodness. You’re still here.”

  
“Mm,” Crowley tapped at his throat before wincing away. “couldn’leave.”

  
“Oh no, your throat, I’m sorry Crowley…water! I have – here. With ice cubes.” Aziraphale snapped his fingers and a cold glass appeared.

He tipped the edge and slowly fed Crowley sips of water, watching his throat bob at each gulp.

He pulled away the cup after a moment and snapped his fingers again.

  
They were in the rarely used bathroom, Crowley in the tub, sans clothes and surrounded by warm water.

Aziraphale knelt at the tub’s edge with a bowl of water, cut with antiseptic, and a towel.

“I’m sorry I took so long, Crowley.” Aziraphale said as he washed his wounds. “If I came sooner…”

  
“S’not your fault.” Crowley rasped. He flinched as Aziraphale washed out a particularly large burn on his chest.

He sobbed as the scab dislodged and fresh blood ran.

“I’m sorry, dear. This won’t be fun.” Aziraphale teared up.

  
He went about Crowley’s body, washed each wound with careful hands and gentle pressure, blanched at the water as it grew redder by the second.

  
“I’m nearly finished. Only a little more.” Aziraphale assured as he reached his legs and feet.

He glanced up at Crowley’s wings, which laid awkwardly against the tiled walls.

It was a marvel that Crowley hadn’t pointed out the uncomfortable situation, but Aziraphale theorized that, given how much pain he was in already, the wings were just another layer atop it all.

  
Which only infuriated Aziraphale more, made him rage with holy anger at Crowley’s captors.

  
“I’ll need to fix the breaks in your wings, dear.”

  
Crowley went white, eyes wide.

  
“B-But, perhaps not yet. I’m running low on miracles at the moment. Need to recharge.” Aziraphale said quickly. “I still need to clean your back so, if you can - ?”

  
Crowley drew a breath, sighed, and gritted his teeth.

His wings wavered, dipping between opaque and translucent, before finally folding back and vanishing completely.

That effort alone, however, left Crowley drenched in sweat and panting terribly.

“Ta-dah.” He breathed with a shaking smile.

  
“Well done.” Aziraphale pressed a kiss to his brow. “I’m so proud of you.”

  
“Don’ ask…anythin’ else. Awhile.” Crowley’s voice broke hoarsely.

  
“I promise, I won’t.” Aziraphale whispered.

Once all of Crowley had been cleaned, tub drained and filled twice through the venture, Aziraphale sat him down on the bathmat and went about applying ointment and bandages to each and every wound, every gash and burn.

  
Poor Crowley looked closer to a mummy than a demon.

  
“There we are.” Sighed Aziraphale, head a bit fuzzy. “I think some sleep might do you good now. Oh, don’t get up. Here, I got you.”

  
He lifted Crowley into his arms; the demon looked so light yet, in his arms, was even lighter.

He carried him out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, sheets turned down and the lighting just low enough to be soothing.

As he set Crowley down, he felt one of his hands grip his sleeve.

  
“D-Don’leave.” Crowley begged, before he averted his eyes with shame.

  
“I won’t.” Aziraphale promised as he sat in a nearby chair. “I wouldn’t dare. Now, try to sleep. I’ll be right here. No one will hurt you.”

  
Crowley, snuggled in his blankets, gave him a concerned look.

“You…sleep too.”

  
“Thank you, but it’s far more important that you sleep. I’ll be alright for a night.” Smiled Aziraphale.

  
Crowley put up no more fuss; within minutes his eyes had drooped closed and he slept, albeit a sleep marred by pained whines each time he shifted or even breathed wrong.

  
Aziraphale watched with a thinned look.

He took Crowley’s hand, wary of his wounds, and gave it the lightest squeeze.

“Sleep well, darling.”

He left Crowley only once that night.

And that was to pull the closest thing he had to a weapon: a knife used for scaling fish.

  
He held it close, as close as he did with his flaming sword, and kept watch.

With the promise that no one, not even all of Hell, would get past him.

Would harm Crowley ever again.

\--

  
“Why’d you let them go?”

  
Dagon had approached Beezlebub back in Hell, things mostly normal again aside from processing several dozen new souls, courtesy of the failed cult ritual.

  
“Do I need a reazzzzon?”

  
“No, my prince, but I thought we hated them. I thought you’d want demon Crawly to pay for his treachery.”

  
“I do hate him. I will _alwayzzz_ hate him.” Beezlebub seethed, then settled. “But a contract is a contract. We are masterzzz of contracts.”

  
“Indeed.”

  
“And we agreed to leave them alone.”

  
“For the time being. I remember that part.” Pointed Dagon.

  
“Time being. As long as time izzz a being.”

  
“That makes no sense.” Frowned Dagon.

  
“I am willing to be liberal with thizzz contract. We are still in no pozzition to challenge demon Crowley. We have no power over him.”

“He is still a demon.”

  
“But not a demon of Hell.” Beezlebub mused, hands folded together. “I meant it when I zzzaid he wazzz the angel’s demon.”

  
Dagon frowned, thought, then went white.

“You mean…that angel. Laid claim on Crowley?”

  
“There izz a third side now, Dagon. It seemzz that neither bossezzz are willing to contest thizz. It izz less that the angel claimed Crowley then they claimed _each other_.”

  
“I wasn’t aware that was a possibility.”

  
“Neither wazzz I.” Beezlebub smiled sickly. “But it might make the next Apocalypzzze more interesting.”

  
“So, you spared them…because of the next war?”

  
“Precizzzely, Dagon. I want to see what they do next. How they prepare.”

They leaned forward in their throne, watched as the cultists’ souls were ferried to the torture rooms, chained together and wailing.

“Becauzzze if they squander this, believe me, we will _not_ let them survive so easily. They will rue my one zzzzpot of mercy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sry for the late post this was re-written literally last minute D: bc 1st attempt suckeddddd. im not super happy w/ it but i hope to build on it in a later update so hey! there will b answers! eventually!


	11. Trail of Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 10 - Trail of Blood
> 
> Ellie's been missing for three days, kidnapped. Hardy arrives but she's nowhere to be found.
> 
> There's a trail of blood, however, that might be the key.
> 
> CW: blood, injury

“ _I’m free._ ”

  
Her feet fumbled through the snow, past the bushes and trees.

Arms clung to her side; hand pressed against her side.

Breath condensed into clouds that rose, faded in the air.

Her foot caught on something, obscured in the snow.

  
The curse hadn’t left her lips before she tumbled, toppled down the hill, through glades of snow, and came to a stop several feet away.

  
She arose like a buried animal, snow clinging to her hair, her face, her clothes.

  
Really, she regretted not bringing her puffer, her last day before this hell.

  
She pulled herself to her hands and knees, stilled to catch her breath and let snow drift from her form.

Stilled to the best of her ability, at least; chills racketed her body, she shivered to a painful degree.

Her eyes forced shut and she drew into herself, knees tucked beneath her as she curled into a ball.

  
Her mind drifted to home.

Her boys laid out in front of the telly in their pajamas, house warm and cozy.

The snow nothing more than a backdrop to fill the scene.

  
…

  
Something crunched.

  
Her eyes flew open and she was pulled back to reality.

No time to reminisce, no time to dream.

If she wanted to _make_ that memory a reality once more, she’d have to keep going.

And it wasn’t an if; she had to make it out alive.

  
For her boys.

  
She staggered to her feet and forced herself along.

She trudged back up the trench, forced her hands to claw through snow for roots and ledges to cling to, head spinning as blood stained her shirt, clung it to her skin.

Fingers curled around spindly branches, desperate for purchase, ears perked to the snap and groaning of wood.

She gasped and threw herself over the last foot of distance.

  
She rolled, tumbled around the side of the tree, hand slapping against the snowpack.

Her back thumped the bark, threw the last of her breath free.

…she was so cold.

So tired.

She’d been fighting for three days straight.

  
Barely slept.

Given so little food and water.

Beaten.

Tormented.

 _Stabbed_.

  
Surely, she deserved a break?

A little sleep wouldn’t hurt.

  
Maybe it’d even help.

  
She let her eyes drift shut, snowflakes on her lashes, the world disappearing into gray and black.

  
\--

  
“ _You’re alive, Miller. We’ll find you alive. You’re alive._ ”

  
The patrol car barely came to a stop before Hardy was out, hiking through snow and under police tape.

  
PCs filed out with men in cuffs, door barely hanging on its hinges.

They gave Hardy only the shortest looks before proceeding.

  
Hardy swallowed, steeled himself, then entered.

  
…

God, _this_ is where they kept her?

  
It was barely a cabin.

Closer to a trash heap.

There was no carpet, barely any intact glass.

The floor was covered in odd stains.

There were emptied beer cans everywhere.

  
Worse was a far room, barely the size of a closet, the one spot SOCO swarmed around with cameras and swabs.

Even from where Hardy stood, he could see blood splatter.

It took the air from his lungs.

He balanced himself against a wall as his head spun, his eyes threatened to water.

No, he hadn’t even seen her yet.

  
Nothing done by jumping to conclusions.

  
SOCO Brian stood and nodded at Hardy with concerned eyes.

“Alright, mate?”

Hardy’s face strained as, nonetheless, he nodded.

“Yeah.” He breathed. “What have you found?”

  
“Blood. Mostly blood. There’s, uh, a belt with stains in there. We’ve bagged it for analysis. Some chains locked in loops. Could’ve been used to secure E – er, DS Miller.”

  
Hardy’s eyes flared as his face grayed.

“…and her? Where is Miller?”

  
“She’s not there. Or, well, here. Anywhere.” Brian grimaced. “…I’m sorry, sir.”

  
Hardy ran a hand across his face, over his mouth, stifled a strangled shout.

“People don’t just _vanish_ , Brian. She’s somewhere and if anyone knows, it’s the damned bastards we have in custody right now!”

  
“Right, right. Sorry, sir, I’m just telling you what we, SOCO, have. Which isn’t much.”

  
“I know, I _know_.” Hardy bit out. “…I know. Sorry, Brian.”

  
Brian tucked his hands under his armpits and alternated balancing on each foot.

“We’ll find her, sir.” He said. “You know Miller, she doesn’t give up. Not easily. She’s fighting tooth and nail.”

  
“Won’t forgive me if we don’t find her alive.” Hardy sighed. “I wouldn’t if I were her.”

  
Brian furrowed his brows.

“Sir,”

  
“Keep looking. I’ll see if the PCs found anything.” Hardy then turned away without waiting for a response.

As he turned to leave, he stopped.

A sharp chill flew through the cabin.

He glanced to his right, where PCs were gathering.

  
“Sir,” one piped up. “there’s more blood out here.”

  
Hardy ran in front of them, surveyed the snow.

There was blood, a sizeable series of drops.

They led away from the cabin, trail starting to disappear beneath the snowfall.

They ran into the woods.

  
“Sir!” squawked a PC as Hardy ran headfirst into the snowstorm.

  
“Gather the other PCs! Scour the woods! I’m running ahead; have someone get a blanket and warm drink ready immediately.” Hardy shouted over his shoulder as he, too, vanished into the thicket of trees.

His eyes remained fixed on the ground, on the snow stained with crimson, followed deep into the woods, across frozen creeks and trenches.

Every other tree was stained with a bloody handprint.

  
He picked up the pace.

His feet skidded, sunk into heavy drifts as he slid down a trench, where the otherwise picturesque snow held a sizable disturbed portion.

  
Sizable, comparable to a human body.

There was blood there too.

  
“Miller!” Hardy shouted. “Miller, where the hell are you??”

  
No response.

  
“ _Shit_.” Hardy hissed as he turned about. “Miller!”

  
He looked at the uniform lines of trees.

Turned to face ahead again.

One tree had several branches broken, too cleanly to be natural.

  
Unconcerned about frostbite, he plunged his hands into the snow and scaled the ledge.

At the top, he nearly flopped onto his front, drew deep breaths as he willed his heart to slow, to not topple forward and trigger his pacemaker.

He couldn’t afford that.

No.

She came first.

…

There was another bloody handprint on this trunk.

As well as a shadow on the other side.

  
His breath caught; he scrambled around the side.

  
And there she was.

  
“ _Miller_.” He gasped as he fell to his knees.

He brushed snow from her face and hair, placed two fingers against her pulse point and listened.

There was a steady, but slow, heartbeat.

She’s alive.

He sighed in relief, maneuvered her arms and grimaced at the blood.

So much blood.

It’d stained through her shirt and blotted the inside of her jacket, upon examination.

  
He needed to move her, but he had no clue how injured she was.

  
“Miller, I need you to wake up.” He said, taking her hands into his and rubbing furiously.

God, her hands were so cold.

Like ice cubes.

Could a living person get this cold?

He ignored the thought.

“Please, Miller, wake up.” He begged. “You can’t sleep yet. I need you awake and talking. _Please_.”

  
An agonizing minute passed.

Then, finally, her lashes fluttered.

  
She moaned, head lulling to the side, as her eyes half opened.

The clarity had yet to return to them, but she was, mostly, awake.

  
That’s all Hardy needed.

  
“Good, that’s good.” He assured as he blew onto her hands. “Miller, can you hear me? Your neck seems fine, I think. I…I don’t know. _Damnit_ …your back. Is your back okay? I need to move you.”

  
Ellie muttered wordless noises, grumbles of resistance.

Her eyes started to shut.

  
“Hey! No, no! God damnit, Mill – _Ellie_! Stay with me! Stay. With me. If you fall asleep now, you might not wake up and I will _not_ let that happen.” Hardy gritted his teeth, eyes watering. “Tom and Fred! They’re waiting for you. Stay awake for them!”

  
One hand left hers and flew up to her chin.

He tilted her head forward, rubbed his thumb against her cheek.

  
Slowly, her eyes opened again.

“H-H…Hardy?”

  
A wobbling smile crossed his face.

“Yeah.” He breathed. “Yeah, it’s me.”

She hummed, tried to stand but only fell back against the tree.

“M’cold.”

  
“Figured as much.” He blew on her hands again.

  
“M’tired.”

  
“I know.” Hardy hushed as he lifted one of her arms. “You can nap later once we get you warm. Can you walk?”

  
She made small noises of questioning, pain, before her head shook loosely.

  
“Right. That’s alright. I’ll walk for you.”

Hardy snaked his arms under her armpits and hoisted her upright, let her ragdoll against his body.

He took a moment to consider the best plan of action before he took one of her arms and wrapped it behind his shoulders, half-supporting her.

  
A few steps forward, however, and she collapsed onto her knees, pulling him slightly off balance.

  
“Sorry.” She whispered.

  
“Don’t be sorry.” Urged Hardy. “I – here. This might be better.”

With a grunt, he swept her into his arms and carried her, tucked against his chest, feet dangling as he trudged through the drifts of snow.

He didn’t care about the blood staining his coat; he’d worry about that later.

After all, as a detective, he didn’t buy nice coats for a reason, beyond salary.

  
“Mmph.” Ellie protested weakly, even as she leaned against his coat. “Never gonna…le’me live this down…”

  
“Nope.” Hardy confirmed.

  
“…damnit.”

  
He huffed a small laugh; at least she was joking, that was a good sign.

He’d thought her dead just a moment ago.

As he felt her burrow closer against him, he adjusted his arms to curl her more, allow her to bundle herself without agitating her wound.

“Told a PC to get tea for you. A blanket.”

  
“S’nice.” She mumbled.

“Can see if I can sneak you some chocolates too.”

  
“Stop being nice t’me. You’re not nice.”

  
“No.” Hardy’s face wilted. “But I can be. Sometimes.”

  
“Yeah.”

  
Hardy’s face remained fallen as he huffed and dragged his feet through snow drifts. Where the hell were the other PCs?

“…I’m sorry, Ellie.”

  
“Don’ call me…” Ellie’s fingers curled against his jacket. “…why apologizin’?”

  
“You were taken right outside the station.” His voice ran low, quiet. “I was still there. I could’ve…should’ve walked you to your car.”

  
“Wouldn’t have let ya. Soppy shit…can handle myself.”

  
“No.” Hardy agreed. “I still could’ve done something. _Anything_.”

  
“You did.” She smiled with a spark of giddiness. “You _saved_ meee.”

  
Hardy glanced down with a quirked brow, a nervous look.

Mental confusion was part of hypothermia; was she out there that long?

He picked up the pace.

  
“You did.” She reiterated. “Thas enough.”

  
“Is it?”

  
“Y’can’t stop bad things fr’m happening.” She continued. “They jus’ do sometimes.”

  
“I…I know.”

  
She thudded his chest.

“Don’ beat yourself up…knob. Know you are.”

  
His mouth ticked into the barest smile.

  
“Jus’ glad you found me. Can go home to Tom and Fred. Wasn’ sure that was a possibility. Now, I can. Because of you.”

  
“And the team.”

  
“And _you_.”

  
Hardy didn’t respond, just gave a short nod.

The PCs finally caught up with them and, in almost no time at all, Ellie was swept from Hardy’s arms and handed to the awaiting paramedics.

Hardy was given his own blanket, which he kept around him as he followed the ambulance crew.

He watched as they strapped her to the gurney, pressed something against her side to stem the blood flow, loaded her into the vehicle.

  
The doors slammed shut.

  
“What do you want to do, sir? We just need to finish up in the cabin.” A PC piped up.

  
Before Hardy could answer, SOCO Brian stepped up.

“He can head out. We got this. Can, uh, report our findings back at the station.”

He glanced at the detective.

“S’long as you’re okay with that.”

  
Hardy returned Brian’s gaze, his brows high.

He and SOCO Brian had never gotten along.

He wasn’t sure he fully forgave him for the “Shithead” moniker that he coined that spread through the station’s team.

But, maybe, the bridge wasn’t completely burned.

  
Hardy assented with a nod.

“Yeah. That’s okay. Just be thorough. Don’t leave an inch untouched. Swab everything you can. I’ll look over the reports and debrief back at the station.”

  
SOCO Brian gave him one last smile before returning to the cabin with the team.

  
Hardy watched until the team disappeared before clambering into the patrol car.

One PC was with him.

“To hospital.”

  
The car started, revved, before turning onto the road.

“But uh, we need to make one stop before that.”

  
“For what?”

  
Hardy’s gaze drifted to the falling snow.

“Grapes. Seedless ones.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dang im running behind lol sorry for the wait and that it's short again, whumptober might bleed (haha) into whumpvember...whumpember?
> 
> either way, ill write all the prompts, it just might take me longer than i thought


	12. Devil's Trap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day #11 - Defiance/Struggling/Crying
> 
> Crowley has been summoned by cultists who want to bring about the end of days.
> 
> Prequel to #9 - Ritual Sacrifice
> 
> CW: graphic violence, blood, language

There were many perks to being Hell’s earthly agent.

  
There were also many downsides.

  
The primary downside, in Crowley’s mind, was the greater likelihood of being caught up in human summoning rituals.

  
To be fair, nine times out of ten, these rituals turned out harmless or easy enough to wiggle free from.

Most humans, after all, didn’t have a lawyer’s mindset; their contracts, verbal or otherwise, had enough holes to put swiss cheese to shame.

Sloppy work, however, meant a short time held in a demon trap or summoning circle for Crowley.

  
Which he liked.

  
Other than those desperate humans, there were, of course, slumber party seances and attempts with Ouija boards that would pull him too.

Those were even easier to deal with than normal.

Often, those kids didn’t want anything in particular other than a good scare.

Crowley would oblige, though never with anything that’d truly _break_ them.

  
Emotionally scar them, maybe, but only to discourage them from meddling with demon summoning.

  
Those composed the nine times out of ten, which would usually make this downside not terribly awful.

It was that one time out of ten, however, that made this downside Crowley’s worst.

  
Because in that one time out of ten were the _cults_.

  
Cults were serious.

Cults were devilish and cruel.

Cults were single-minded.

But worst of all, cults knew what they were doing.

  
And that little detail would make Crowley’s life a living hell if he were unfortunate enough to be trapped by one.

  
Like he was now.

  
He’d been tending to his menagerie of plants when, in a second, he was gone from his flat.

Before he could regain his bearings, judge his surroundings, everything went black again.

This time, courtesy of a blunt blow to the back of his head.

  
The next time he woke, his wrists and ankles were shackled, and he laid on his stomach.

The floor beneath him was solid, cold, creaked with even the smallest movement…wood, he decided.

Confirmed once his eyes refocused and he could see the grain in the boards.

As well as bright, white lines, cleanly and expertly drawn with varying sigils that, no points for guessing, were meant to keep him bound and negated his powers.

Excessive; a faint tap to his shackles confirmed they burdened that responsibility fine on their own.

  
He craned his neck up and spotted the other inhabitants.

Check off a checklist of stereotypical cult attributes, it’d be filled out: dark cloaks, candles, gloves, book of mysterious origin, bottles of viscera.

At least they added one interesting detail: animal skull masks.

Oh, this was going to be _fun_.

“Not even a chair, guys? Really, the other cults were much more accommodating.” Crowley pouted, wiggled like…well, the verse popped into the head. He supposed it was obvious.

  
One cult member, he assumed the leader, stepped forward.

He wore an elk’s skull on his head.

“You are a demon.”

  
“No, I’m a singing telegram. Whose birthday is it?”

  
Even beneath the skull, he could see the leader scowl.

“Do you think this is a joke, demon?”

  
“Course not. But you guys could use one. Looking a little dour, must be a _real_ hit at parties.”

  
“ _Silence_ , demon. Enough of your prattle.” The leader snapped.

He snapped his fingers and another member handed him the book.

“Now, tell me, demon, about Armageddon. Tell me why it didn’t occur.”

  
Crowley, for his part, just laid there.

His lips thinned, pulled back to exaggerate his facial lines.

He gave the leader the widest eyes, a simple look.

  
“Well?? Answer me, demon!”

  
“You told me to shut up. I was doing just that.” Crowley shrugged.

  
“Are you insulting me, demon?!”

  
“Oh _noooo_ , you found me out, Sherlock.” Crowley gaped in false shock. “Done cracked the case, haven’t ya? Give him a round of applause, ladies and gentlemen.”

  
The leader’s shoulders were starting to shake with annoyance.

He lifted a hand and snapped at a cult member.

Said cult member hustled over to the shelves of viscera, pawed around the numerous jars and bottles.

She pulled out a large, screw top jar.

Top was undone in quick turn; she reached in and grabbed a fistful of something dry and fragrant.

  
As she drew close, Crowley instantly recognized the smell.

Sage.

  
“Oh, _fuck you_.”

  
The cult member ignored him, lit the edge of a sage leaf until it smoldered, then dropped it inside the circle.

The sage produced a rather shocking amount of smoke, odorous and thick, trapped within the confines of the small summoning circle.

Crowley sucked in a breath, one he remembered he didn’t need belatedly, and cursed himself as a litany of rasping coughs and dry heaving was yanked from him.

He tried to flatten himself against the floor, to keep under the smoke, but it only seemed to follow him.

His eyes watered, red and angry, as he forced a grin.

“Bastards,” He hacked. “I’ll have you know this fucks with my asthma, you assholes.”

The leader only stared silently as a different cult member pressed a piece of chalk into his open hand.

  
The first cult member dropped another piece of burning sage into the circle.

  
“Easy on the sage! I already can’t breathe in here!” He spat.

  
“You don’t need to breathe.” She replied.

  
“That makes it okay??”

  
“It’s done.” The cult leader stood from where he crouched and pocketed the chalk. “Now, as you remain bound to this circle, you can only speak the truth. Thus, you will tell us what we want.”

  
“Those things aren’t always the same, you know.” Which was the truth.

  
“Why didn’t Armageddon occur? Our books and prophecies foretold that the Earth would end last year, 2019 A.D. Yet, we still stand. Why?”

  
Crowley’s smart remark was killed quick by a strange, boiling in his throat.

He gagged, tongue twisting around the words that wanted to spill forward, but he forced them down.

They wanted the truth; they never specified they wanted the _full_ truth.

“It was stopped.”

  
“We understand _that_.” The leader growled. “Tell us _how_ it was stopped.”

  
Crowley gritted his teeth, tried to will his throat closed, but the words stumbled out.

“T-The…antichrist…disavowed his dad…” He eked out. “Prevented Armageddon.”

  
The leader’s eyes, visible behind the mask, widened.

The other members stepped back, glanced at one another in shock.

“But why?” The leader asked quietly. “Why would he forsake his purpose? His duty?”

  
Crowley hacked, spat onto the floor, drool pooling over his lip.

The sage really was making it hard to speak, to think.

To see.

Not that he necessarily needed to see, but he preferred the ability to.

The boiling roiled up his throat, constricted his chest and pulsated shocks into his brain the longer he resisted.

“…Lucifer isn’t his dad.” He gasped. That was, after all, the truth now. “He made it so. The E-Earth…is his home.”

“That doesn’t answer our question!” barked the leader. “Why?? Why would he stop Armageddon? What purpose does he have for the Earth to live longer?”

  
“D-Don’t think it’s a purpose.” Crowley grunted, wriggled onto his knees despite the thick clouds of sage. “Think…he just likes it. Earth. Humans.”

  
“I don’t understand.”

  
“S’that why you formed a cult? I think you’re just a sad sod who’s lonely. Prefer the world to end over having to admit that maybe, just maybe, you’re a prick.” Crowley grinned.

  
The cult leader fumed, he blazed from behind his mask.

He snapped his fingers and three of the members stepped in front of him, wielding everything from metal pipes to cricket bats.

The members lifted their implements.

  
Crowley, despite it, only winced a little.

  
And then they came down on him.

  
The pipe collided with his right arm.

The bat with his jaw.

The rod with his spine.

  
He cried out, shouted, faltered to the ground and curled up as the weapons battered and bashed at his body, soon joined by the members’ feet as they kicked him to his side.

His ribs exposed, they aimed for that.

In a minute, he heard something snapped, and what little breaths he did take in were far more strained.

The pipe slammed against his knee; that snapped too.

His left hand joined afterwards.

He howled in pain and, when they finished, he was slumped on his side, scarcely able to move.

  
The leader crouched down, reached through the circle to cup Crowley’s jaw, tilt his head up.

  
Crowley’s eyes were clouding and watering, but a frown remained on his face.

He spat at the cult leader’s face.

  
He simply wiped it from his face with a smirk.

“Have you learned your lesson, demon?”

Crowley was about to retort, to lob another insult at the leader’s face, but thought it best not.

He needed the time to recover.

Still, he didn’t nod, didn’t agree.

Wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

  
The leader’s smirk faded, vanished, and he threw away his grasp to stand once more.

“The Antichrist may have stopped Armageddon…but you’re a _demon_. You can restart the end of days. If not you, then your masters. Can you start the end of the world again?”

  
Crowley groaned, tucked his broken hand against his chest.

He snapped one, pain-filled eye towards his captor.

“Couldn’t even if I wanted to. And I don’t.”

  
“Hell would rise up, fill the Earth. Your side would raze humanity to the ground.”

  
“N-Not…my side anymore.” The truth was pulled from Crowley like teeth. “’m on my…my own side.”

  
The leader stopped, body language stiffened, head cocked slightly to the side.

“So… _you_ don’t want Armageddon either.”

  
Crowley’s teeth gritted as he, slowly, shook his head.

  
The leader nodded, fingers gripping his chin in thought.

“…you said the Antichrist stopped Armageddon. But it wasn’t just him, was it? _You_. Did you stop…no, did you play a part in cancelling the Apocalypse?”

  
Shit. When put like that…

“Yes.”

  
The members shifted, stared in shock even behind their skull masks.

The leader, however, remained stalwart as before.

“Who are you, demon? What is your name?”

  
Oh, now that was dangerous.

A demon’s name held power.

These spells, sigils and runes were powerful already, but even they had their limits.

With his name, they could do _so much more_.

So much more that Crowley would simply not allow to happen.

“I…” He bit out, forced his teeth into his lip as he thought through his answer. “…am the Serpent of Eden. The first tempter. The one condemned to…to crawl on the ground. Eat dust for all…you get it. That’s me.”

  
The members gasped, stared in mixed awe and fear.

The leader, on the other hand, frowned.

“Your _name_. Tell us your name, not your title.”

  
Shit.

It was pulled, laboriously, strung long like taffy from his lips.

He fought, struggled, resisted as long as he could.

The pain, however, escalated.

It was like a torch had been lit under his feet, nails driven into his skin and his fingernails peeled back.

One could only resist for so long under that.

“C-C-Cr…C-Crow…” Crowley gagged, gasped, bit the inside of his cheek, but it still tumbled out. “…C-Croooowley.”

The leader, in returned, gave a sickly grin.

“Thank you, _Crowley_.” He said. “Now, Crowley, tell me, for I am curious like _you_ wanted us to be: why would you stop Armageddon?”

  
The name added oomph to the sigil’s strength, closed the room that Crowley could muddle in to give technical truths over the desired answer.

It instead forced him to spill his darkest thoughts, his feelings, _everything_.

Never had he wanted his sunglasses more than now.

His eyes were watering again as he answered.

“I…love the Earth. Humans. I-I don’t…don’t want them destroyed.” He answered with a croak. “You lot been t-t-tested before. I don’t understand t-t-testing you to _destruction_.”

  
The words. The very words he’d professed to Her, days before the end.

Words once privy to only her.

Now in the open.

  
“Anything else?” prodded the leader. “You can’t lie. I can see it. Something else.”

  
Oh…oh no.

No, no he couldn’t.

Not here.

Not to people like this.

Damn the sigil, it might force him to say the truth, but he wouldn’t say it.

He couldn’t give him away.

Because if they could grab him, what was stopping them from seeking out Aziraphale?

  
No, he wouldn’t let them.

He couldn’t let them harm his angel.

  
…but the burn was welling.

His throat, already torn and raw from the sage smoke, curdled and blistered as the magic swelled and built.

He croaked, hoarsely whined, clawed at his throat in hopes to just dig the blasted spell out of him.

It flared into white hot pain, and he couldn’t fight it.

  
“Tell us, Crowley. What _else_?”  
  


_Aziraphale, I’m so sorry –_

“’ziraphale,“ Crowley choked, the first tears slipping free. “c-can’t fight him. Won’t. H-He’d be miserable… _up there_ , no. He’s m’friend, don’t…don’t want this to end.”

The last words tumbled out.

“…love him.”

And he was crying.

The leader stood, watched in abject surprise as the demon started to unravel, chewed on the words confessed, laid out in front of him.

“You love…an angel? Is that it?”

  
Crowley whimpered and nodded.

  
“Oh.” A cruel smile crawled onto the leader’s lips. “Oh, now that is interesting.”

  
“Fuck you.”

  
The leader said nothing, only stared, perhaps with an eyebrow lifted.

  
“Fuck you. F-Fuck you and your little…your little gang. Your squad. All of you. You’re the exact humans I regret saving. You’re the ones that make people _thrilled_ for the end of days. You could be doing something to make this world better, make…make everyone _cherish_ it. Yet I, a demon, am trying to do more than you lot. What does that say about you?”

Crowley forced a weak, but hysterical, smile.

“I’d say that you lot should be in here. Not me.”

  
The leader stared, only stared.

Maybe glowered.

Crowley thought he saw his fingers twitch at his pocket, the one with the chalk.

  
The door to the cabin swung open.

“My lord, the preparations are complete.” Spoke the member. “Is it ready?”

  
The leader addressed the member.

He mulled, thought a moment.

“Almost.” He answered. “There’s one last thing we must ensure.”

  
The member nodded and shut the door again.

The leader turned to Crowley once more and, well, his gaze had somehow darkened further.

He lifted his book and started flipping through the pages.

“Crowley,” He spoke. “Your true form. Surely, this isn’t what you _actually_ look like, is it? Demons are a more…ghastly lot, I assumed.”

Through the skull’s eye sockets, Crowley saw his gaze lower.

“Show me, Crowley, your true self.”

  
Crowley never showed his full, demonic self.

Not even to Aziraphale.

Because to be honest, he hated it.

Hated how the fall was apparently not enough, no.

No, his true self had to be corrupted too, turned bestial and hideous.

Yet another stab in the gut.

  
One of the first things he’d mastered after his fall was how to consolidate his demonic traits.

His imagination, after all, was one of his greatest strengths.

Thus, he’d simply imagined himself as what he normally looked like: humanoid, even normal to the average human, less animalistic than his compatriots.

Course, he couldn’t will away _everything_ : the eyes remained, not that he disliked them, while he stuffed the rest of his attributes into a small snake tattoo by his ear.

Just enough to be clearly demonic, or at least unsettling, but not enough to be as obvious as his associates, even while in Hell.

  
It’d been millennia since he took on his full, demonic self.

But he was bound.

  
Thus, he complied.

  
He gasped, shuddered as scales appeared, folded into being and popped through his skin, obsidian against paled skin.

His fingernails lengthened, sharpened into black claws, closer to talons than nails.

His canines lengthened into curved fangs.

The whites of his eyes were completely swallowed by yellow.

He felt the back of his shirt tear.

  
And out popped his wings, the one other piece of his self he wasn’t ashamed of, the one part he clung to even after he fell, midnight black but still like his angelic counterparts, not leathery like one might assume.

The cult members, even the leader, staggered back, captivated by his meticulously kept wings, which stretched and braced against the circle’s barrier.

  
“There.” Crowley hissed, forked tongue flicking out. “Are you ssssssatisfied?”

  
The leader, still in shock at the wings, finally shook himself from his admiration and cleared his throat.

He snapped his fingers at the three earlier members, still carrying their weapons.

“T-Those wings.” He noted. “He could fly away with them. Break them.”

  
Crowley’s pupils shrunk.

  
The members looked hesitant.

  
“Well?” barked the leader. “Do it.”

  
The three members nodded and, faces apologetic for the first time since Crowley arrived, they encircled him.

  
“N-No…” Crowley begged, struggling and failing to pull away, drag himself onto his knees. “please don’t. Please. Come on. T-This…this isn’t necessary – “

  
They raised their weapons above their heads.

  
And down they came.

  
…

  
The door opened again, and it was the same cult member.

“I apologize, my lord, but midnight draws near. Is it ready?”

  
The cult leader adjusted their mask and hood.

He tucked the book into his cloak.

“I believe we are now.” He said and snapped at the other members. “Break the circle. It’s time.”

  
The cult members descended upon Crowley; weapons forgotten as one member scuffed the barrier.

Crowley, for his part, was still too in shock to do anything but lay still, limbs limp as he was dragged onto his feet.

His wings…oh, his _wings_.

They hung behind him, broken and mangled such that they didn’t even lay flat against his back, instead twisted painfully, tips of primaries sliding across the boards.

He couldn’t bear to look behind him; he knew all he’d see were puddles of blood and piles of broken feathers.

  
Two cult members flanked him, hands under his armpits, as they dragged him out into the cool night air, barely a reprieve from the sage-heavy atmosphere of the cabin.

It was too little, too late.

He offered only the meagerest struggle, tried to dig the foot of his good leg into the dirt, but that ended with a stomp onto his ankle and another snap.

His voice was so raw, so exhausted, he could only manage the weakest whimper of pain and a dry heave.

His head hung low, lolled against his chest, as they dragged him into the forest, past trees with animal carcasses nailed to the trunks.

  
Ahead, another circle, this time a devil’s trap, lit by flaming torches and candles.

It was red, unlike the white chalk summoning circle.

A large bowl, like a punch bowl, in one member’s hands stained red told Crowley exactly what this circle was drawn with.

Some two dozen cultists stood around the circle, some with skull masks, others with their hoods merely drawn over their eyes.

  
The cult leader stalked ahead, hands out and extended towards the sky.

  
The cultists uttered low chants, spoken in Latin, as they shuffled and convened.

  
The leader walked to the left as Crowley was pulled forward and chucked into the outermost part of the circle.

He groaned as he felt its magic take hold, its sigils only meant to hold him and bind his powers.

_Only_.

He might’ve scoffed at that earlier.

  
His shackles were undone, and his elbows were grabbed as they dragged him into the circle’s center.

They flipped him onto his back, onto his mutilated wings, which pulled another shriek, hoarse and strained, from him.

  
The cultists, in unison, uttered another Latin word in reply.

  
His wings wriggled free, laid splayed in both directions across Crowley, shape still so disfigured and _wrong_.

He could’ve started to weep again.

  
The cult leader approached, the bowl of blood now in his hands, and stood over Crowley with feet on both sides of him.

Around the leader, four members gathered and started pulling Crowley’s limbs straight.

There were wooden stakes hanging from their belts.

Crowley already braced himself for what was coming.

The leader bent down, paintbrush in hand, and started brushing blood across Crowley’s face.

“ _To you, Crowley, Tempter, Serpent of Eden, you are offered._ ” He chanted in Latin. “ _As sacrifice, as payment to the Darkest Prince, the Destroyer, the Forsaken._ ”

He shambled back, set down the bowl, and pulled a knife that he used to slice Crowley’s shirt open.

  
As he did, the first stakes were hammered into Crowley’s hands.

  
He wailed.

  
“ _Let your soul burn, condemned to the furthest damnation, as we celebrate the end of days. Let your master rise from the earth, from his deepest pits, and finish what he once started lo one year ago today._ ” He continued.

  
The last stakes were hammered in.

  
With that, the cult leader left the circle, left Crowley miserably trapped, unnecessarily pinned to the ground in the devil’s trap.

  
The leader raised one hand, the other propped the book, as the other members lifted their hands too.

He started reciting, chanting low, a summoning ritual.

A communication to down below.

To _Lucifer_ himself.

A plea to be heard.

To bring about the end of days.

Armageddon, again, already.

  
He hadn’t even gotten two years of freedom, of independence.

Of time with his angel.

  
… _Aziraphale_.

  
Oh, his angel, he hadn’t seen him in a week before this.

He’d planned to surprise him with a bottle of vintage wine, with treats.

With plane tickets to Paris.

…he hadn’t even gotten to say goodbye.

  
Now, he’d never get to.

  
And that finally brought Crowley over the edge, unraveled.

He wept, openly, ugly cries and sobs pouring free.

Tears cascaded, threatened to smudge the blood sigils across his face.

The chants only grew louder, as if to drown him out.

The circle below him started to burn.

He distantly wondered if _he’d_ burn too.

  
The blood glowed, bright demonic red, and _seethed_ , blistering the earth with its light.

Crowley felt it.

He expected to be destroyed by it, to be rend by it.

He closed his eyes in expectation.

  
…but no.

  
He wasn’t being pulled apart, burnt to cinders, disintegrated.

Yes, it still hurt, but the pain was slow.

It was building, yes.

But in the meantime, he felt something _within him_ grow.

  
The circle was meant to trap his powers.

And it did.

Perhaps it was because it was built before the cult knew his name.

Knew what he was, what he was capable of.

Perhaps that was it.

  
He supposed he wouldn’t know, didn’t care.

Because it was something in his favor.

  
He tapped at the growing something and it unfurled, blossomed within him.

  
Oh… _oh_ , that was different.

  
He arched against the ground, chest pointed to the sky, wings curled in a semi-circle.

His pupils were swallowed by serpentine yellow.

Scales rippled, overtook his human skin.

His maw opened, gaped with teeth too sharp and fangs dripping with poison.

  
And he screamed.

An inhuman, unearthly, scream.

  
His hands and feet tore through the stakes as he lifted, levitated into the air, the cultists’ chants halted in favor of panicked mumbles and cries.

His neck cracked as he cocked his head, angle unnatural, and stared wildly at the cult leader.

  
The cult leader staggered back, stumbled, fell onto his butt as he held his hands out in desperation.

Crowley’s blood dripped, poured onto the circle below, igniting like gasoline upon impact but exploding forth like nitroglycerin.

The waves of hellfire, bright oranges and white, burst forth, shattered stones and left not one cult member untouched.

  
They didn’t even get the time to scream.

They were ash long before that.

  
The light faded, the circle’s glow died out, and every torch and candle still lit were snuffed out.

The forest clearing was scorched, marred by strips of smoke and ash that still smoldered.

All that remained of the cultists were their skull masks and robes, nothing more than tatters now.

  
Crowley’s body still dangled, hung in the air.

His pupils slowly returned as his irises receded back to their normal state.

As they receded, so did his claws, teeth, and scales.

He floated down, wings curled around him, until he was mere inches above the ground.

  
He fell the rest of the way.

  
And blacked out as soon as he hit the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this might b the whumpiest thing i written for whumptober XD whoops
> 
> sry for breaking our demon boy


	13. Hit Reset

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 12 - Broken Trust/Broken Down
> 
> Hardy betrays Ellie with no remorse.
> 
> CW: nothing

“Hardy? Where are you?”

  
Hardy passed through the groves of trees, shovel in hand.

He glanced around until Ellie called out again, and his eyes drifted upward toward the looming ridge.

  
Ellie crouched, looked down.

“Hey, I’m finally taller than you.” She smiled.

  
“Away.” He replied with a smirk. “Did you find anything useful?”

  
“No.” She frowned with a sigh. “Not a thing. I think I’m doing this wrong.”

Her mouth quirked to the side as she surveyed her partner.

“How about you? Find anything?”

  
“Uh,” Hardy glanced in his bag, rummaged around. “sort of? I think.”

  
“You think, or you know?”

  
“I don’t know!” Hardy groaned. “Neither of us do.”

  
“I _sort of_ know. Tom talks enough about this; I pick up a thing or two.” She exhaled on her knuckles and ‘polished’ them on her chest.

  
“Yeah, yeah, you have a kid who’s into this stuff. I get it.”

  
“You’re just jealous because I found diamonds and you haven’t.”

  
“Oi! I’m not! Because _I_ found my things through my own hard work. You cheated.” He pointed a finger at her.

  
“Using knowledge at hand is _not_ cheating.”

  
“No, but looking up guides on your mobile – “

  
“Are you peeking over my shoulder?!”

  
“We’re right next to each other, Miller.”

  
“That’s still creepy!”

  
“You were looking at your mobile while playing, of _course_ I was going to look!”

  
“So _that’s_ how you built those windows. You knew from the guide! You saw it!”

  
Hardy flushed a shade of pink.

He grumbled, glanced up at the sky.

“We should get going. Getting dark, won’t be safe out soon.”

“Right. We can continue this back inside. Which we _will_ do.”

  
“Fine.” Hardy rolled his eyes and hacked at a tree.

  
“…you do have an axe, right?”

  
“Yeah, but…that’s the easy way. Shut up.”

  
“Whatever you say, sir.” Ellie put her hands up, turned away, and started digging.

  
A few minutes into their work, Ellie stopped, stood up.

“Sir.”

  
Hardy kept chopping at the trees, gathering wood.

  
“Sir!”

  
“What?”

  
“Think I heard something. Clattering. You hear that?” She hissed.

  
Hardy left his job, surveyed the ledge, clambered out of the trees for a better look.

“…nothing there.”

  
“What? Really?”

  
“Yeah, no. Think you’re hearing things.”

  
“…you’re lying.”

  
“M’not.”

  
“How do I know that?”

  
“Because why would I do that? Not good to be out alone.”

  
“…fair enough.”

  
“Exactly. There’s nothing up there. You’re hearing things.”

  
Ellie sighed, put away her pickaxe.

“Good. I _really_ didn’t want to deal with monsters.”

She called from her crawlspace.

“There’s nothing useful in here. I’m coming out.”

  
“Right. Meet you down here.”

  
“’kay.”

  
He waited, hid behind a tree, watched from a safe distance.

Eventually, Ellie’s head popped up above ground.

  
Right in time for the skeleton to start shooting his bow.

  
“AH!” Ellie shouted as she fumbled for her sword. “Hardy, you _bastard_!”

  
“Oops, were you asking about the skeleton?”

  
“Course I was asking for – agh, two hearts left – the skeleton, you ass!”

  
“Language, DS Miller. S’just a game.”

  
“Don’t you ‘language’ me – oh god, no!”

  
A well-placed arrow from the skeleton, and a misstep from Ellie, sent her plummeting to the ground, down to Hardy’s level.

As soon as her body hit the ground, it exploded into a poof of white smoke, her belongings littering the grass.

  
_DSEl has died._

_  
_“I’ll just take that diamond helmet.” Hardy hummed as he pocketed her things. “For safe keeping.”

  
“You knob!”

  
\--

  
Ellie whacked Hardy’s arm, causing him to drop his controller.

  
“Ow! What was that for?”

  
“What was that for?? You’re such a jerk! Took advantage of _my_ trust – “

  
“You didn’t ask about the skeleton.” Grinned Hardy.

  
“I _asked_ if you heard anything! That means enemies!”

  
“ _Ohh_ ,” Hardy’s eyes widened. “well I’m _sorry_ , DS Miller. You know I don’t play many video games. How could I have known?”

  
“You’re a bloody detective! You – oh, see if I ever trust you again!”

  
“ _Miller_.”

“Don’t ‘Miller’ me. _I’m_ not talking to you.”

She tossed her controller to the side, turned away from Hardy, crossed her arms and dramatically pouted.

  
“Miller… _El_ – “

  
“No. Don’t you dare.”

  
“Right.” Hardy sat back on his side of the couch.

  
They sat there, looking away from one another, for all of a minute.

  
Before Ellie folded over, shoulders shaking, as she started laughing.

“T-This…” She snickered, hand over her mouth. “…this is so _stupid_.”

  
Hardy’s eyebrows flew up.

“Wait, were you actually mad at me??”

  
“A little! Not much. Just…oh, it’s so stupid.”

  
“It really is.”

  
“B-But,” Her laughter broke through the words. “you r-really were a jerk.”

  
“Were? They called me ‘Shitface’, Miller, what’d you expect?” smirked Hardy.

  
“Y-Yeah, yeah, that’s…that’s…”

Her laughs continued, drew and faltered into shuddered hiccups, mixed with tears.

“Oh…o-oh no. Oh, why…shit, I’m crying – “

  
Hardy instantly sobered.

He watched; hand bridged between them.

  
“I-I’m sorry, I don’t…don’t know – “

  
“Hey.”

  
Ellie looked back over, eyes glistening with tears.

  
Hardy watched back, patient as ever.

“I, uh, don’t know if it’d…I could… _only_ if you’re okay – “

  
“Shut up. Please.” She furiously wiped at her eyes. “Please, I…just do it. Don’t make me ask.”

  
“Alright then.”

  
He pulled her across the gap into his arms.

Her arms snaked around him.

She buried her face into him.

“This is stupid. Why am I crying? It’s a bloody game.”

  
“Don’t…” Hardy rubbed her back. “…don’t think it’s the game.”

  
She shook her head, face buried in the crook of his neck.

  
He sighed, breathed in, held her as close as he could.

  
“…be less embarrassed if it wasn’t just me.”

  
“What, like we had a cry session?”

  
“Be better. I-I feel like an idiot.”

  
“You’re _not_ an idiot.”

  
“Then why am I crying?”

  
“Could make a guess.” Mused Hardy. “Work’s been right awful.”

  
“Understatement of the fucking year.”

  
“This is our first break.”

  
“In too long.”

  
“First time to just, I don’t know, lose ourselves in something stupid.”

  
“So stupid.”

  
“Shh.”

  
Ellie sighed, slumped against her partner.

“Think I needed this. Just…a night where we don’t worry about anything. _I_ don’t worry.”

  
“Think so too.”

  
“S’been hard lately.”

  
“I know.” Hardy deeply sighed. “Too many cases.”

  
“Too much – “Ellie squeezed her eyes shut. “– don’t want to think about it.”

  
Hardy gave her a squeeze.

“There’s still the game. Still another bottle of wine we haven’t tried yet.”

“We open that.” Ellie groaned. “Oh god, tomorrow’s going to be a _nightmare_.”

  
“Yeah. Will be.”

  
Ellie pulled away, loosened herself from Hardy’s hold.

Wiped her eyes against her sleeve.

“H-How…I hate it. You’re mister ‘cool as a cucumber’ and I’m falling to pieces.”

  
Hardy steeled his gaze, even lowered his voice.

“I cry on the inside, Miller.” He muttered.

  
She sputtered, snickered.

“Oh…oh that was bad.”

  
“It was, wasn’t it?”

  
“Yeah.” She grimaced.

  
“Won’t do it again.”

  
  


She chuckled, wiped the last tears from her face.

“If we drink that bottle, you’re not driving. You’ll stay here.” She sniffed. “I’ll make pancakes tomorrow, if you’d like.”

  
“Will we be coherent enough for that?”

  
“You’d be _amazed_ what hungover Ellie can do.”

  
“Would I?”

  
“ _Yes_.” Ellie fished her controller from the couch cushions. “And you’ll be shocked when _drunk_ Ellie kicks your ass at Forza.”

  
“No more Minecraft?”

  
“I don’t _trust_ you with co-op games, Alec Hardy.” She smirked. “A competitive game, at least, you can’t betray me.”

  
“Oh my _god_ – “He rolled his eyes, grinned. “You’re on.”

  
“Best two out of three handles the clean-up.”

  
“Four out of five.”

  
“Fine. Bring it, Hardy.”

  
“Bring it, Miller.”

  
She backed out of _Minecraft_ and onto to the main menu.

\--

  
Daisy watched, hidden in her corner, as the two detectives crashed their racecars against one another, laughing and cheering between sips of wine and bites of crackers.

  
Her mobile buzzed; she plucked it out.

  
_“How r they?_ ”

  
She tapped out a response.

“ _Actually having fun. Cant believe it. Dad’s LAUGHING_ ”

  
Ping.

“ _Wow is Mum having fun?_ ”

  
“ _Looks like it_ ”

  
“ _Cool_ ”

  
“ _Thx for lending your game station. Good idea._ ”

  
“ _Tbh Chloe’s idea._ ”

  
“ _Still your game station._ ”

Daisy’s lips thinned, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

“ _Think they needed this. Three murder cases, one a kid. Can’t be easy._ ”

  
Another ping.

“ _Have they got culprits 4 all of them”_

_  
_“ _Think so, just paperwork now. Still fucking stressful_ ”

  
“ _yeah_ ”

  
A pause.

A ping.

“ _Tbh I’ll be glad if mum’s less grouchy after this._ ”

  
A quick ping.

“ _Don’t tell her I said that._ ”

  
Daisy grinned, stifled a chuckle.

“ _Won’t tell a soul. Will bring your station back tmrw._ ”

  
“ _K_ ”

  
“ _Thx again_.”

  
She pocketed her mobile, gave one more look at the two, before returning to her room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah its stupid and yeah its sooooo ooc but i wanted them somewhat happy for a moment lmao


	14. Confronted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 13 - Oxygen Mask
> 
> Ellie confronts Hardy's torturer.
> 
> Continuation of Day 6 - Self Employed
> 
> CW: none

“Mr. Charles Edmund Wake. Do you go by Mr. Wake? Charles? A nickname?”

  
She watched as he shuffled in his seat, relaxed, hands cuffed to the table.

“Charles is fine.”

  
“Alright, Charles.” Ellie sifted her paperwork, pressed folders together in a clean pile before setting them down. Hands folded together; she finally met his gaze. “Now, I’d like to start by asking you why you think you were brought here today.”

  
His eyes lazily drew the ceiling, lips pursed in thought.

“I suppose” He answered with a held-in sigh. “this is regarding the man in the basement.”

His hands folded together and mirrored Ellie’s.

“And that you believe I know something about it.”

  
“That all sounds correct.” Ellie nodded. “And, yes, I say I have an inkling that you might know a bit, if you can confirm this address belongs to you.”

She pressed a paper forward.

“For the records, I have presented evidence 39 dash C: a redacted report from the pacemaker tracking app utilized in the investigation.”

  
Charles leaned forward, adjusted his huge wire frame glasses, and read over the address once, twice, three times.

He nodded.

“That would be my address.”

  
“Your home address?”

  
“Yes.”

  
“Right.” Ellie jotted a note. “Right, then that confirms my inkling. The basement is _your_ basement. This is where we found our…our _victim_.”

She paused, lingered, cleared her throat.

“I’d like to ask you to recount the events of the past three days for the record. I understand that a complete recollection may not be possible, but pertinent events would be helpful.”

Charles leaned back once more; eyes trailed again to the ceiling.

“Well,” He exhaled audibly. “Three days ago, was a lazy day. I mostly stayed home. Watched telly. Think I went out to the shops in the morning. That’s about it.”

He glanced at his flexed fingers.

“Two days out…went for a drive. Yes, I went to a nice little bookshop in a neighboring town. My favorite. They know me personally. My treat for the day you could say.” He smiled.

He reached for the back of his neck only to be stopped short by his cuffed hands.

He grunted, settled for laying them on the table again.

“As for yesterday, well, I was home all day. As a retiree I’m not the most vivacious individual, you must understand. Lately, I’ve been far more of a homebody. Considered adopting a dog, that’s about as adventurous as I’ve gotten.”

He chuckled.

“Not even a puppy, I was thinking an older dog. No need to do all the training.”

  
Ellie gave the best smile she could muster, watching her suspect as she wrote.

“And you can confirm these events are accurate, to the best of your knowledge?”

  
Charles’s smile wavered and he nodded.

“Yes, I can.”

  
“Because” She leaned forward, pressed another paper forward. “we asked some locals about your favorite haunts. The bookshop was mentioned so we asked the owners about you.”

  
Charles’ smile vanished.

  
“And they said you haven’t been by in weeks. They were even wondering about you.”

  
Ellie crossed her arms and levelled Charles with a stare.

“So, would you like to try again with that recount? Perhaps without the horseshit this time?” She asked sweetly.

Charles frowned, leaned forward to cross the gap.

“I would like to inform you” He started lowly. “that I didn’t remember _exactly_ what I was doing two days ago. I said the bookshop because that seemed like something I’d do. You must forgive me; I am quite old. Sometimes my memory is a bit cluttered.”

  
“Then why not just say that?” asked Ellie.

  
“Wouldn’t that sound worse to a detective like you? Wouldn’t that make me look more guilty?”

  
“This isn’t a game, Charles.” Ellie’s fingers tapped at her arms. “There’s no correct or incorrect answer, there’s only information. If you _want_ to play this like a game, then I’m more than happy to end this interview and try again once you’re done _shitting_ with me and congratulating yourself on how clever you are.”

Her eyes flared; prepared daggers aimed at her suspect.

“Because that’s it, isn’t it? You really think you’re so clever. Think you can play this like a game. _Win_. Is that it?”

  
Charles’ expression didn’t waver, didn’t change.

Still, he nodded.

“I’m sorry.” He said in a softer voice. “I’m ready to give only the flat truth now. No games.”

  
“Oh _good_.” Ellie sighed with a disdainful smile. “I am relieved to hear that.”

She tapped her pen.

“So, would you like to try recalling two days ago again?”

  
Charles nodded.

  
“Alright. I’m ready when you are.”

  
Charles chewed on his lip, sighed nasally, gestured with shoulders and hands.

“It did start normal. Another day at home. I was working on my garden. Watering the plants.”

“I had noticed a car near my driveway. Thought I recognized it. Same make and model as one parked across the street a week ago. But there was a bloke inside this time.”

“I’d seen him prowling around my yard. Saw him chatting up my neighbors. Looked right miserable, that’s what I thought.”

His gaze grew distant.

“Never seen such tired eyes…made me wonder what _made_ him so tired. Even I after years of working that insufferable job didn’t look like that.”

“Did you recognize him?” asked Ellie. “Know him?”

  
“The man?” Charles shook his head. “No. Didn’t matter to me. All I thought about was how tired he looked.”

  
Ellie wrote down her notes.

“Did you talk to your neighbors? Ask about him?”

  
“Felt no reason to. I’m not exactly close with them. Didn’t think they’d agree that he seemed odd. Never really gotten along anyways.”

  
She set down her pen and looked back up.

“So, you saw an odd man around your property.” She noted. “What next?”

  
Charles nodded along with his thoughts.

“Just took note of him. Noticed that night his car was just leaving. Decided I was done with him. Wanted to warn him off.”

When he noticed the unsaid question in Ellie’s eyes, he continued.

“So, hopped in my car.” He sighed. “Tailed him. When he pulled off to the roadside, I pulled off too. He seemed distracted.”

He stilled as a thought crossed him.

“His breathing…seemed labored. Too labored for his age. I was concerned for him. He collapsed; I took him with me.”

  
“He just collapsed.”

  
Charles only nodded.

  
Ellie’s mind flitted to the medical report.

_Signs of bruising around the back of the head, above neck._

_Shape irregularly uniform, consistent with blunt force trauma produced through an object’s impact._

_Like a bat._

_  
_ “Continue.”

  
Charles shrugged.

“That’s it.”

  
“Except he _didn’t_ collapse.” Ellie cornered. “And that isn’t it.”

She slid another paper over.

“Evidence 40 dash A: medical report released by Hearth Hill Hospital. Details of DI Alec Hardy’s injuries are listed.”

She stabbed the paper with her finger.

“The doctors noted blunt force trauma to the skull. Consistent with assault and battery cases.”

“Doctors get things wrong all the time.”

  
“I’m _certain_ this wasn’t an error.” Ellie snipped. “You’re lying again, Charles, and I’m getting a bit impatient.”

  
“Isn’t that on you, then?”

  
Charles looked at her simply, lower lip pouted, expression similarly impatient.

  
“I will tell you this only _once_ more, Charles.” Ellie glowered. “You will start taking this investigation seriously, starting now, or I will have you booked on obstruction of justice charges, because I will not _take_ having my time or anyone else’s time wasted.”

She jabbed her pen at the report.

“Because one way or another, DI Hardy is in hospital because of _someone’s_ doing. And you are our best lead, guilty or not, and neither of us are leaving this room until some answers are given.”

  
Her stare, intense and unyielding, finally seemed to crack through Charles’ façade.

  
“So, will you cooperate with me Charles?”

  
He swallowed.

“I didn’t intend on hurting him.”

  
She gave him a look.

  
“I _didn’t_. Not as seriously as it seems I did.” Charles insisted. “I wanted to send a message.”

  
“And _he_ was the message?”

  
“In a way.”

  
“To leave you be.”

  
“Yes.”

  
“Right.” Ellie shuffled the papers. “But there’s one thing I still don’t understand.”

She glared over the papers.

“Waterboarding. You know what that is, clearly.”

  
“I am familiar.”

“ _You_ ,” Ellie gritted her teeth, fought the obscenities that wanted to tumble out. “psychologically tortured him. That is what I don’t get.”

  
“I was curious.” Charles defended angrily. “Books can only tell you so much. I wanted to know for myself. He was just convenient.”

  
Ellie’s heart dropped like a stone; stomach curdled.

She was seconds away from leaping over the table and she could _not_ afford to inflict any harm on Charles.

No matter how much he deserved it.

“Interview is on pause. We will take a short recess. You will remain in the holding room until the interview restarts.”

  
She clicked the button, stood stiffly, and left the room without another word.

She speed-walked away, made a beeline for the loo, locked herself in a stall.

As soon as she was alone, out of sight, she buckled.

Her hand clasped over her mouth and she heaved.

Her eyes screwed shut as her mind flooded with questions, memories, feelings.

  
_He was convenient_.

  
Convenient.

Like this was some thoughtless impulse.

Which, she supposed, it was, for Charles.

Which only made it worse.

He clearly had no remorse.

Not a feeling.

  
_He was convenient_.

  
Tears broiled.

Her hand threaded through her hair.

Screams echoed through her mind.

\--

  
_They’d had to sedate him._

_  
He’d fallen unconscious before they brought him into the ambulance._

_  
She wasn’t allowed to ride in the ambulance; she tailed behind in her car._

_  
Once she arrived, she was quickly escorted to his room, a private room in the A &E._

_She’d already called Daisy, updated her on her father’s status._

_She was in the room as they wheeled him in, him groaning and staring about in confusion._

_  
She walked back, kept out of the way, as medics surrounded him, pulled away his soaked shirt and stuffed it into a plastic evidence bag._

_  
His eyes drifted to her and, for the first time, there was the smallest clarity in them._

_Oh god, they were so pained._

_  
“We’ve got him.” She said over the din. “He’s in custody. You’re safe. Y-You’ll be okay.”_

_  
A tear slipped free as he moaned in pain._

_An IV was poked into his arm, medics muttering about antibiotics and concerns over oxygenation._

_  
“Get ventilation. We won’t chance it.”_

_A nurse tilted Hardy’s face away and, in one swift movement, slipped an oxygen mask over his face._

_  
The clarity instantly vanished._

_  
Ellie could only watch as Hardy’s pupils exploded wide, his breath condensing against the plastic mask._

_His screams were muffled as his hands flew up, scrabbled at the oxygen mask, his body bucking away from the medics._

_  
She could almost make out three words: get it off._

_The blood drained from her; she couldn’t look away._

_  
The heartrate monitor’s beeping turned into a rapid-fire series, no rhythm._

_“He’s panicking. We need to sedate him; he might hurt himself. Get me sedation!” cried a medic._

_Two medics wrestled Hardy’s arms to the bed, two more at his legs._

_  
This only drew louder shrieks from Hardy._

_Ellie own breathing wasn’t doing much better._

_The sight had shortened her every breath, sharp and shallow._

_She clung to the wall._

_Her eyes were wide and terrified._

_She had to do something._

_  
She pushed around one medic and placed her hands-on Hardy._

_She leaned over him, tried to calm herself enough to speak._

_“Sir.” She hushed. “Sir, it’s okay.”_

_Her thumbs rubbed at his shoulders._

  
_He was still hiccupping, whining and crying._

_  
“It’s okay, sir. You’re safe. I’m here. Daisy’s on her way. We won’t let you be hurt anymore.”_

_  
A doctor jabbed the drip and injected a clear liquid._

_“Sedative administered.”_

_  
Hardy shook, continued to cry, but at least stopped thrashing._

_His eyes, clouded with fear, started to clear._

_Then, hazed again, under the sedative’s influence._

_But his pupils remained on her._

_  
“That’s it. You’re safe, Hardy. You’re safe.” Ellie whispered. “You’re safe.”_

_  
His eyelids drooped, breathing levelled out._

_The heartrate monitor dropped to a steady rhythm once more._

_Eventually, he fell asleep._

_  
And she let go._

_  
She stepped back as her hands shook, took a breath and sighed deeply._

_  
A nurse walked past her, started affixing something to the bed’s guards._

_Ellie realized what they were as the nurse maneuvered Hardy’s arms: leather restraints._

_  
“Wha – no. No, what are you doing?” She asked._

_  
“We can’t keep him sedated forever, Mrs. Miller.” Explained a nurse. “And if he has another episode, we have to consider the safety of hospital staff too.”_

_  
“By restraining him? He was restrained when he was tortured i-it could…there has to be something else!”_

_  
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Miller, but this is what we have to work with.”_

_  
The nurse stepped away, revealed the sight of Hardy, oxygen mask around his face and deeply sedated, now strapped to the bed with leather restraints._

_And, well, it pierced through her._

_She staggered out of the room._

_Clung to a wall._

_Hung her head._

_And breathed._

_  
Just breathed._

_  
Because she wasn’t going to cry._

_  
There was time for that later._

_  
She had a questioning to conduct._

_  
_ \--

  
She sniffed, wiped her eyes.

  
She’d stalled long enough.

  
Exiting the toilet, she dabbed some cold water under her eyes, patted them dry, then returned to the room.

  
Charles hadn’t moved.

“Better?” He asked.

  
Ellie shot him a look of contempt as she sat back down.

She sighed roughly and pressed the record button.

“Interview has been resumed.”

She folded her hands together once more.

“You said you were curious.” She started.

  
“I was.”

“And the only way to satisfy your curiosity…was to torture another person.”

  
“I prefer to think of it as an experiment. _Not_ torture.” Charles answered.

  
“I don’t give a shit about your preferences. It was torture, plain and simple.”

  
“Much great scientific discoveries have been vilified as torture – “

  
“Oh, would you cut the bravado?!” Ellie snapped. “This _denial_ of yours is…well, it’s – “

Her smile strained as she huffed nasally.

“– it’s beyond words, honestly.”

Her eyes drew back to his.

“Can you look me, dead in the eyes, and honestly say that what you did was excusable, because _some_ science had unethical backgrounds?”

  
Charles said nothing.

  
Ellie cooled, folded her arms on the table.

A loose hair hovered against her face.

“Can you, Charles?”

  
Charles shook his head.

“No.”

  
“Then why, Charles? Why torture him? Why not just find more documents? Film? Historical accounts? There was so much at hand. None of it involve hurting someone else.”

  
Charles glanced up and the light in his eyes grew shrouded.

His face tightened.

“It wasn’t my plan, initially. That medical report describes other bruising I bet? That was from the first sessions that first day. I _tried_ using less detestable methods to deter him. Guess what? They didn’t work.”

He leaned forward.

“Your partner was a real piece of work. Tired, sad, miserable. Someone who, by all accounts, should be dead already. But stubborn as hell. Didn’t break even as his bones threatened to.”

His eyes widened, goggled, took on a different light.

One that sent shivers down Ellie’s spine.

“And yeah, maybe, I found that fascinating. I had never seen such stubbornness in anyone. _That_ was my true experiment: I wanted to know the tensile strength of _stubbornness_.”

  
Ellie held back a shudder, watched as Charles looked on with those manic eyes, that devilish look.

“And if he wouldn’t break under physical duress, you thought…”

  
“ _Psychological_. Yes, DS Miller, that’s why I chose waterboarding.” He sighed with a pleased look. “Leaves no visible marks. Can be orchestrated with objects found in any average home. Deviously simple but absolutely _devastating_.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I almost feel shame, to be honest. Would you judge me, hold it against me, if I said it was, almost, _beautiful_? I do love the simple things.” A wobbling smirk crossed his face. “And such a simple thing brought a stubborn man to the point of tears. He couldn’t _move_ and I hadn’t used all the water on hand, he broke so thoroughly.”

His eyes laid to the ground, mind whirring with thoughts, before they shot back up to Ellie.

“I do wonder, with enough time and water, what might’ve happened? I suppose a question I’ll never answer but it boggles the mind.”

  
“I’ve heard enough.” Ellie steeled her gaze as she jotted her final notes. “Charles Edmund Wake, I’m formally charging you for the infliction of torture. You will be held in custody until your hearing with a date to be set.”

  
She stood and two PCs filed in.

They stood on both sides of Charles as he was uncuffed, then cuffed again, hands behind his back.

Charles didn’t give Ellie a look as he was escorted out to a holding cell.

  
Only when he was gone did Ellie breathe.

She faltered, held to the table for support, as she gasped.

She brushed the hair from her face.

Along with a tear.

She was still shaking.

  
She finally left the room after several minutes, arms around her, seeking for warmth.

  
“Alright, Ellie?” asked an officer.

  
She gave a short nod and sped off.

  
Outside, she breathed in the cool, coastal air.

She ran a hand across her face as she fished for her mobile.

She dialed the number.

Held it to her ear.

  
…

“ _Hello?_ ”

  
“Daisy, hi.” Ellie smiled; free arm tucked around her. “Are you still at the hospital?”

  
“ _Yeah._ _Can’t really leave, can I? Won’t leave Dad alone._ ”

  
“I understand, love. I’ll be on my way back soon. Should be there in half an hour if you’d like company.”

“ _…I’d appreciate it, yeah._ ”

  
“Of course.”

  
“ _Ellie?_ ”

  
“Hmm?”

  
“ _Please tell me you got the guy._ ”

  
Ellie stilled, nodded despite being unseen.

“Yeah. He’s been booked. We’ll get the paperwork done and, at minimum, he’ll stand trial for this.”

  
She heard the girl sigh, the sound so ragged and broken.

“ _Thank you._ ”

  
“No need.”

  
“ _No, I…I just need to know he’s gone._ ”

  
She heard her hiss.

  
“ _I don’t want that_ bastard _to see the sun again._ ”

  
“I understand.”

  
“ _I_ mean _it, I_ don’t _want him free. I-I’d tear him to pieces, tear off his balls, do_ anything _just…_ ”

She heard Daisy sob.

“ _…don’t let me near the guy. I know you wouldn’t, I-I-I just –_ “

  
“It’s okay, Daisy. It’s okay.”

Ellie braced herself and dared to ask,

“How’s your dad?”

She heard Daisy sniff.

“ _Still out. Sedatives p-pretty strong. Least he’s sleeping._ ”

Her voice deteriorated into hoarse cries and weeping.

  
“I’ll be there soon, love. Hold on, you’re doing wonderfully. I’ll be right there.”

  
“ _T-T-They have r-restraints on him…_ ”

  
“I know, love, I know.”

  
“ _I don’t understand, Ellie, I-I don’t know_ why _._ ”

  
Ellie’s eyes watered over, vision blurry and dangerously unclear.

She inhaled but her breath hitched.

She swept away tears.

“I don’t either.” She admitted.

  
All she heard on the other hand was croaked tears, dry sobs, and general noises of confusion and fear.

The fact she had to leave a poor girl alone, her father strapped to a hospital bed –

  
Ellie shook her head.

She couldn’t think like that.

As much as she wanted to stay, she had a job to do and she _did it_.

  
The guy was going away for a long time, she hoped.

She’d done her job.

The first part, at least.

  
The next part, supporting the Hardys, would be a challenge.

But no matter what, she’d ensure she was up to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> credit to amitafi for the idea of Ellie confronting Charles it fueled how tis fic was plotted


	15. Proper Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 14 - Branding
> 
> Aziraphale is recalled to Heaven for a disciplinary meeting.
> 
> CW: beating, emotional abuse (?), branding

“Archangel Gabriel’s ready to see you now.”

  
Aziraphale’s head popped up, far more anxious than one might be hearing the chittering secretary’s voice.

He’d spent the last half an hour waiting patiently in one of Heaven’s lobbies, with only the busy secretary for ‘company’.

This wasn’t unusual; Gabriel had left him waiting a few times prior, even though _he_ set the time for the meetings.

Aziraphale, as always, was punctual.

And he’d wait, as long as needed.

Sometimes up to an hour.

With not a chair in sight.

  
Perhaps this was a test, a test of patience.

He supposed angels were, after all, bastions of patience, or were supposed to be.

And as an earth agent, they’d want to ensure their representative, well, represented Heaven well.

  
Yes, that was it.

  
The secretary stood, makeup perfect and suit wrinkle free, and held an open hand to the door, ushering Aziraphale forward.

  
“Ah, yes, thank you.” He answered as he entered, hands busy with his waistcoat and jacket.

  
As soon as his feet passed the threshold, the door shut and vanished behind him, leaving him stuck in the open concept office Heaven had been favoring as of late.

This room, too, featured scant furniture with the primary draw being the large window that encompassed an entire wall, leading to a view of Earth’s major monuments, cloistered together to defy geographical boundaries, a menagerie of human accomplishments.

Gabriel, for his part, had his back to where the door had been, his gaze fixated on the view.

  
Aziraphale hesitated, unsure if it’d be proper to call out to his boss or clear his throat.

He could simply wait until Gabriel noticed him.

Then again, _that_ could result in a reprimand too; he had been disciplined before, some time ago, for lack of initiative, whatever that meant.

He shuffled in his spot, stuck on what to do.

His hands wrung together.

  
Thankfully, Gabriel turned around and didn’t seem the slightest surprised by Aziraphale’s presence.

“Aziraphale! Buddy, glad you could make it.”

  
“Yes, well, I would hate to miss a required meeting.”

  
“Which we appreciate, of course. Punctuality is respect and respect is, of course, a virtue.” His grin didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Bit of a big deal around here.”

He bridged the gap and clapped Aziraphale on the shoulder.

“But hey, I’m just rambling, aren’t I? You got all that down pat, don’t you?”

  
“Y-Yes. I mean, erm, I always appreciate the refresher. T-Thank you, Gabriel.” Aziraphale fought back his flinch.

  
Gabriel’s lavender eyes shone.

“No need to thank me. Always happy to help.”

Aziraphale’s eyes dipped down, followed Gabriel’s quick flit of the eyes, to his hand.

Gabriel, like all angels (save himself, he supposed) followed the trends of earthly fashion but otherwise held back from personal adornments.

This time, however, he wore a large, silver ring on his right hand.

No gemstone was set in its center, rather another piece of silver, flattened, formed the centerpiece.

Emblazoned into the silver was an emblem: two pairs of wings forming a diamond around an Enochian word.

An Enochian _translation_ , Aziraphale realized, of a much older word.

_Redēmptum_.

  
“Admiring my ring?”

  
Aziraphale’s eyes shot back up, met Gabriel’s expectant gaze.

“Ah, yes, it is lovely.”

  
Gabriel smiled and adjusted it, turned it to show off its detail and craftsmanship.

“Brand new. Thought it’d be a nice touch to the ensemble. I can get one made for you if you’d like. Replace that beat up old thing you wear.”

  
“Oh, uh, quite kind of you, but I think I’ll pass for now.” Aziraphale smiled as he, absently, fiddled with his own ring.

  
Gabriel’s smile dipped faintly, so little that most might miss it.

  
Aziraphale didn’t, and his nerves started to buzz.

“ _Anyways_ ,” He clapped his hands together. “I suppose you’re wondering why I called you up here. Hasn’t been, what, two weeks since our last check in?”

  
“I believe you’re right. Let me…yes, two weeks.” Aziraphale glanced away to count.

  
“Yeah and, I’ll be real, I was hoping not to call you in so early. I know it’s an inconvenience, what with your _important_ work back on earth. Hate to leave it unguarded.” Gabriel grimaced. “But I think you’ll agree this couldn’t wait.”

  
“O-Oh? Oh dear, that…well that doesn’t sound good.”

  
“Don’t worry your little head, Aziraphale. Hopefully this will be quick. We just need to make some corrections. That’s all.”

  
_Corrections_.

As much as Gabriel told him not to worry, that’s exactly what Aziraphale was starting to do.

  
Gabriel snapped his fingers and a manila folder popped into his hand.

Aziraphale’s name, written in Enochian, was printed on the tab.

He flicked it open and thumbed through the papers.

“Let’s see. Most recent reports. _Where_ is the most recent report…”

  
There was a buzz in the air.

A chime rang out.

  
Aziraphale fought the urge to look behind him; he had a feeling he knew who arrived.

  
“Ah! There we go. I swear, without our filing angels I’d lose my head…” Gabriel chuckled with a slow head shake. “…yeah, here we are. Recent miracle expenditure. Ledgers cross-checked the usual three times or more. Hmm.”

  
Two figures slipped through the room, slinked over and stood, bordering Aziraphale on both sides.

Two hands rested upon his shoulders.

“Oh! A-Archangel Michael, Uriel. Er, fancy seeing you both here.”

“Yes. Fancy that.” Uriel said with a stern look.

  
Another chime.

Oh no.

  
Gabriel’s grimace dug valleys into his face as he uttered a low, pained hiss.

“Oh, oh dear. Oh boy, buddy, this just isn’t _good_.”

  
“N-No?” Aziraphale peeped. “I-I mean, there must be a misunderstanding – “

  
“Angels don’t make mistakes, Aziraphale.” Michael tutted. “Not with miracle ledgers, at least.”

  
Aziraphale wilted.

  
“Gotta admit, Aziraphale, this looks very legitimate. And if it is, wow, it’s not good.” Gabriel slapped the folder shut. “That’s a _lot_ of unnecessary, wasteful miracles there. _Way_ more than the average allotment.”

  
“O-Oh? Oh dear, I-I really was trying to trim down too.” Aziraphale started before the hands started to press down.

He had been, honestly, he’d put quite a considerable _effort_ towards aligning with celestial standards.

He had, simply put, forgotten himself.

  
It had been impulse.

Had he done nothing, everyone in that bus crash would’ve died.

He thought he’d done the right thing.

Then he remembered the multiple conversations, the multiple talks about divine will and how some are ‘to die because that is in the great plan’.

To deviate was, well, unbecoming of an angel.

As if to _assume_ a single principality knew better.

Aziraphale knew he didn’t.

“I truly am sorry, I-I-I know we’ve talked about this before – “

  
“Yes. A dozen times at least.” Sandalphon smirked as he snapped his fingers.

  
Aziraphale gasped as his jacket, waistcoat, and shirt vanished, and he was pushed down to his knees.

Michael and Uriel held him by the elbows, their other hands pressed him down by the shoulders.

  
“Please, Gabriel – “

  
“Ah, ah. Aziraphale, _buddy_ – “Gabriel shook his head, clicked his tongue. “ – what have we talked about?”

  
Aziraphale’s mouth slapped shut.

  
“Come on. I know you remember. What did we remind you?”

  
Aziraphale averted his gaze.

“…a good angel doesn’t question, doesn’t fuss, doesn’t protest when…when given the chance to _repent_. He takes it, head…h-head held high. Not a word. No begging.”

  
“You remember, but what you were about to say…that wouldn’t be _begging_ , would it?”

  
Aziraphale flushed pink with embarrassment.

“No.” Aziraphale hushed, eyes dipping low. “No, forgive me. I-I spoke out of turn.”

  
“ _And_?” Gabriel waved his hand, a gesture to continue.

  
Aziraphale shut his eyes, prepared himself as he inhaled.

“T-Thank you. For reminding me of w-what…what a _proper_ angel would do in my place. I will do better.”

  
Gabriel’s smile returned.

He sighed dramatically and shook his head.

“We _really_ hate to do this. But, well, we care about our wayward sheep. Consider that a flaw of ours.”

A rod appeared in Sandalphon’s hands.

  
Aziraphale’s pupils shrunk as Michael tugged his hair, forced him to meet Gabriel’s gaze again.

  
“Remember, Aziraphale, this is just because we want the best for you. We want you to meet your _potential_. You believe us, don’t you?”

  
Aziraphale’s breath hitched.

He could hear the rod waver, its holy energy humming in the air.

His arms and knees were shaking, knocking, hair standing up at the cold, sterile air.

He knew the expected answer.

He also knew what he, shamefully, felt.

Because this couldn’t be right.

It wasn’t right.

When he met humans punished with beatings and floggings, he leapt to their defenses.

  
He _knew_.

But here?

His mouth went dry.

  
He gave a short, quick nod, and squeezed his eyes shut in anticipation.

  
“I’m glad.” Gabriel sighed. Aziraphale could feel his grin through his eyelids. “I’d feel awful if you thought we hated you.”

  
Aziraphale’s mouth parted, but no words came forth as Sandalphon swept the rod across his back.

  
He gasped, out of turn, balked and let a cry slip free.

  
“ _A real angel accepts correction without protest._ ”

  
He forced his mouth shut, bit hard on the inside of his cheek, as Sandalphon lashed and whipped, swiped and beat as his exposed back.

The only sounds from Aziraphale were the smallest whimpers, the quietest noises of pain, too small to be held back, they slipped through his filter.

His eyes started to water but he forced the tears back down; _those_ were not acceptable either.

His legs trembled, shivered something terrible, but _those_ couldn’t collapse either, because what acceptable angel would find themselves balled on the floor weeping?

  
No, only an improper angel.

A _bad_ angel.

Which Aziraphale wouldn’t be.

But was, for why else would he be here?

This was for his own good.

  
One strike fell against his back; he could tell Sandalphon put his whole weight into it.

  
A cry slipped from Aziraphale’s lips before he could stop it and he stumbled forward.

He was unceremoniously yanked back upright.

  
“Keep your back straight, Aziraphale.” Reminded Michael. “Only demons slither in the dirt.”

_Slither_.

Aziraphale’s mind flitted to Crowley.

His friend.

Oh, thank goodness he never knew about any of this.

He didn’t think he could handle it, handle Crowley knowing about how often he was called to Heaven for discipline.

He’d be infuriated, he thought. He’d storm Heaven for this.

But only because he didn’t understand, couldn’t.

This was a necessity, an embarrassing necessity.

One he couldn’t do with Crowley knowing.

No, not at all.

  
It wasn’t until Sandalphon had built a layer of sweat on his brow, skin shining, that he stopped, rod vanishing into the ether.

Michael and Uriel let go of him and strode to Gabriel’s side.

  
Aziraphale, near immediately, fell to his hands.

His back seethed, burned with fury, ached with the smallest movement as fresh blood oozed and dripped.

He took short, shuddering breaths, to collect himself.

  
Gabriel’s finger met his chin, and his face was tilted up.

“Well, Aziraphale? Has this helped you? Are you more prepared to do your part as a _proper_ Heavenly agent?”

  
Aziraphale bit hard on his lip, stifled the winces and cries that wanted to pour forth from that movement alone.

He sucked in a breath through his nose.

“Y-Yes.” He finally answered, voice breaking. “Thank you, G-Gabriel. I promise to do better.”

Gabriel’s mouth ticked into a slow smile and, if Aziraphale didn’t know him, he might even call it sweet.

Behind him, however, Aziraphale could see something glowing.

“I’m glad to hear it, sunshine. We really don’t like doing this and, we know you’re trying. We do. And we know you hate going through this. It’s, honestly, pretty obvious.”

  
Aziraphale paled.

“N-No, oh no, no I-I…I mean, I understand, this is a, uh, a necessity. Er, a _right_ , I-I-I – “

  
“Shh, it’s alright.” Gabriel rustled his hair. “We aren’t monsters, Aziraphale. We’re going to help you and, hopefully, this is the last time you’ll need to go through this. Doesn’t that sound good?”

He sighed, glanced at his shoes in thought.

“I bet you wouldn’t believe me, but even _I_ struggle with remembering things. I’ve had to learn little tips and tricks to keep track of all my responsibilities, having so many. Archangel and all. I own planners, keep routines. I have little, what do the humans call them, ‘knick-knacks’. It’s an association thing, surely you’ve heard of the concept.”

“Of course, we don’t want to burden you with _things_. Needless. And things can be lost. So, we’ll give you some help. A little, shall we say, _reminder_ to think before throwing around miracles left and right.

  
Gabriel held his hand open behind him as he stood.

Michael handed him the object and he pulled it forward.

  
Aziraphale almost collapsed at the sight of it.

  
At some point, most likely during the flogging, Gabriel’s new ring had been miracled into a brand, handle a few feet long.

The brand, Gabriel’s insignia, burnt white hot and bright, to a degree that made it impossible to look at.

  
“Remember, this is for _your_ benefit, Aziraphale.” said Uriel.

  
“Oh.” Aziraphale said, barely audible. “O-Oh. N – oh.”

  
“I think,” Gabriel smiled coolly. “the words you’re looking for is ‘thank you’.”

  
Aziraphale could’ve gagged.

And, for a moment, his composure, his reminder that here he had to keep up appearances, pretend that he truly was okay with everything he was told, everything that was done to him, wavered.

His eyes drew wide, expression faltered, fear and indignation crossed his face.

His mouth drew to a thin line and he said nothing.

In return, Gabriel’s smile vanished.

He snapped his fingers and Michael and Uriel returned to Aziraphale’s sides.

They snatched him by the elbows and forced him upright, pulled back his arms so his chest was fully exposed.

  
The indignation was gone; only Aziraphale’s fear remained.

  
“I’m _waiting_ , Aziraphale.” Gabriel chastised.

  
Aziraphale’s tongue was like sandpaper as he licked his lips, face drained to match his hair.

“I – “He squeaked. He cleared his throat. “I don’t understand _why_. Why this?”

  
“Are you _questioning_ the host, Aziraphale?”

  
“N-No! No, I-I don’t…don’t intend to…”

  
Gabriel’s smile returned, cruel and venomous.

“No, but you _did_. _That_ is exactly why this is necessary. Because _this_ will stay with you, Aziraphale. You can’t forget about this, so it’s your best shot at being the _good angel_ you’re supposed to be. And don’t you want to be a good angel?”

Gabriel’s eyes drifted to the floor.

“We all know what happened to the _bad angels_ …”

They flitted back to Aziraphale.

“…and we don’t want that for you.” Gabriel said, voice softening. “We do this because we _care_ , Aziraphale. We couldn’t bear for you to fall. And, really, _you_ couldn’t take that either, could you?”

  
Could he?

For a moment, Aziraphale considered it.

Crowley might’ve mentioned some details during their sessions of imbibing.

Thousands of miles of free-falling into sulfur.

Something like that.

Melting, Her grace burnt out of you, leaving nothing but emptiness.

And loneliness.

  
Aziraphale’s eyes fixed on the brand.

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he sank, dipped.

“N-No.” He whispered.”

  
“So,” Gabriel yanked his head back up by his hair. “what do you say, Aziraphale?”

  
A tear slipped past him.

“…thank you, Gabriel.”

“Much better.” Gabriel smiled.

And surged forward with the brand.

  
As soon as the metal touched his skin, the heat blossomed and spread, stretched like tendrils through every nerve, every cell, searing and flaring with nothing left untouched.

Any thought Aziraphale might’ve had prior was incinerated, every feeling gone.

Because all there was was _burning_.

  
He buckled, spine curving away while his head sagged against the grip, skin wanting to crawl away if it could.

His skin sizzled, the white-hot light of the brand never ceasing.

His mouth dropped open, but no scream came forth.

It couldn’t, and Aziraphale wouldn’t.

But someone did he _want_ to.

  
It was barely a second, maybe three, but it felt like an eternity.

Then, finally, Gabriel pulled away the brand, the glow of metal extinguished with a single puff of breath.

He snapped his fingers and the brand transformed back into his ring.

All evidence gone, save for Aziraphale.

“There we go.” Gabriel sighed. “That should do it. A nice little reminder for you. Not too shabby, hmm?”

  
Aziraphale couldn’t answer even if he wanted to.

Because the pain didn’t stop when the brand was removed.

It had only begun.

The pain surged through, sizzled and lingered, continuing its path not to burn further, but deeper.

The lines of the burn, the sigil, shone bright red, with thin trickles of blood forming around their edges.

The burn pulsated, sent out waves of intense pain that subsided only to begin again.

He fought the urge to beat the burn, to touch it, to do _anything_ that might soothe the ache and agony.

  
Gabriel’s smile vanished, a scowl replacing it.

“I’ll be generous, _buddy_ , and assume you’re just speechless. Very well, perhaps you can thank us later.” He snapped his fingers.

  
Aziraphale’s top reappeared, what should’ve been a relief but only intensified the burn.

Fabric that he considered so soft rubbed like sandpaper against his wounds, both the brand and the fresh lashes across his back.

He shuddered, his first sound since the start of the branding.

He wobbled, tried to drag himself to his feet.

“Oh, no need for that.” Gabriel placed his hands on his shoulders, bringing Aziraphale back to his knees. “You look _exhausted_. Consider this a treat on the house.”

  
And at that, Aziraphale was back in the bookshop.

No flash of light, no farewell, no snap of the fingers.

Like it had never happened.

  
The only evidence of his latest “meeting” was, well, himself.

Because the aching hadn’t ceased, hadn’t even _started_ to subside.

He was thankful that he’d missed breakfast this morning, or it might’ve made a reappearance.

He crawled, hands and knees, to the nearest shelf, and gripped it flat-handed as he forced himself upright.

  
His shirt slid across his many wounds and he hissed, finally able to protest his injuries.

The ordeal, the effort of even bringing himself to his feet, left Aziraphale’s skin with a sheen of sweat.

  
_Pathetic._

_  
_He pulled out his handkerchief, dabbed his forehead and face.

Strange, it felt damper than it should.

And his bookshop had never looked so murky.

  
…oh.

“Oh, those are tears.” He noted in a mumble as he patted them away. “Oh, well, we can’t have that.”

His skin still crawled, the pain draining whatever energy he had left.

He wanted, badly, to fall onto his favorite chair and sit the day away.

But he remembered his back.

Sitting would not be optimal.

Nor would laying down, lest he lost rest focusing on not rolling onto his back or tummy.

  
Even the small pleasure of leisure was gone.

Though, he supposed, that was for the better.

  
Sloth, after all, was a vice.

Unbecoming of an angel.

Unbecoming of a _good_ angel.

Which he desperately wanted to prove himself as.

After all, why _else_ would any of this happened?

  
Clearly, he had plenty of work to do.

So, he forced himself upright, back straight despite the rub against his back, steeled himself with a breath.

He gave himself at least the kindness of not crouching or bending over the stacks of books on the floor, less he agitate his wounds further.

He had plenty of pre-stacked books on tables and his desk anyways.

  
And, perhaps, once he’d collected himself, he could look at his backlog of Heavenly assignments.

A perfect way to keep his mind off the meeting.

Focused on _why_ the meeting happened in the first place.

  
“ _And then,_ ” He told himself with a wobbling smile. “ _perhaps next time it’ll be better. They won’t have to…correct me. They’ll be happy._ ”

“ _And I’ll finally be a good angel_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sry aziraphale but it cant always b crowley


	16. Borrowed Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 15 - Magical Healing
> 
> Aziraphale finds himself in a random field, summoned by a dying detective
> 
> CW: blood, injury, almost major character death

One moment, he was in the bookshop, sat in his favorite chair. He’d pulled an old favorite and was indulging in a re-read, mug of cocoa by his side.

  
He might’ve blinked, that was it.

  
And he wasn’t in the bookshop, but instead a random field near the sea.

The rain was coming down.

Or it should’ve been.

  
Aziraphale, as he gathered his wits and senses, finally noticed the suspended droplets surrounding him.

He gave one an experimental tap.

His finger, once drawn back, was damp, but the droplet failed to waver or break.

There was no wind, no sound.

Like life itself had been dampened; the experience faintly came back to him.

  
“ _Someone stopped time._ ” Aziraphale concluded. It’d been almost three centuries but, yes, he knew the sensation.

The question of _who_ stopped time, however, lingered in the air.

  
He turned on his heel, searched around.

“Crowley?” He called.

  
No response.

  
And despite the dim light of nighttime, amidst a rainstorm, the demon was nowhere to be seen.

  
In fact, for a moment, Aziraphale wondered if he was alone in some random field someone knows where.

Which was neither comforting nor conclusive.

  
…

Except, he soon realized he was wrong.

It wasn’t completely silent.

There was a sound.

  
The sound: breathing, heavily labored, almost wet in texture.

  
Coming from behind him.

Aziraphale spun around and, there it was, the frozen tableau.

  
Yards away, a patrol car was parked, its red and blue lights frozen mid-flash.

A uniform stood by its side.

Closest to him, however, were three figures.

  
The first: a man, dressed in dark colors, a mask drawn over his face.

He was turned away, feet directed towards the sea.

Aziraphale approached with caution, examined the man.

He couldn’t have been older than thirty.

The look in his eyes were of fear, shock, the slightest touch of guilt.

Aziraphale soon learned why.

In his hand, clutched between whitened knuckles, was a knife, a switchblade.

  
Its silver blade was stained red.

  
“Oh.” Noted Aziraphale softly, with a mournful tone.

It’d been millennia since the first murder, yet he still hadn’t grown numb to the feeling of grief, the needless loss of life, the impulse of action.

He turned away from the man to face the next member of the scene.

  
The second: a woman, dressed in an orange anorak, gray slacks.

Her messy, curly hair was tied into a loose ponytail.

She looked around her mid to late forties.

Her expression was grief, horror, rage and determination.

Her body was frozen in an awkward gait, mid-stumble, one hand set to catch herself, the _other_ …towards something else.

Her eyes were fixed low to the ground.

He followed her gaze.

  
And his face grayed, the sounds of the wet breathing hitting his senses once again.

  
The third: a man, splayed prone on the ground.

Late forties, hair dampened dark by rain, dressed in a white shirt slowly turning red.

A pale hand clasped around the darkest patch of red, at his chest.

The breathing, the shuddering, was his only movement.

And his color was slowly fading.

  
“Oh dear.” Noted Aziraphale, hands clasped together.

  
The third man finally moved, the small tip of his chin, the drift of his eyes to face above him, to Aziraphale.

And oh…it finally hit Aziraphale.

It wasn’t quite uncanny, not quite.

But there was a resemblance, quite a strong one.

Mostly the face shape.

Like Crowley.

  
The man’s eyes also held confusion, but of a different kind.

The question lingered on his lips, but before he could ask, a deep cough overtook his body, folded him forward, blood splattering his shirt and slacks.

  
Aziraphale wasted not a moment; he ran to the man’s side.

One of his hands supported the man’s head, the other braced his chest.

“Easy there. That’s it. Slow breaths through the nose, lay back down. Best if you move as little as possible, I think.” He quietly urged.

  
The man gurgled, coughed another splatter of blood.

A trickle of blood pooled at his lip.

  
“Here, I have a…a handkerchief. Right, ah, right here. I’ll get that for you.” Aziraphale produced the handkerchief and dabbed the man’s lip.

  
“Who…who are you?”

  
“Well,” Aziraphale pondered how much was advisable to disclose. “my name is Aziraphale.”

  
“You – “The man coughed, gagged, swallowed. “– you weren’t here. Just a moment ago. Where’d you come from?”

  
“London. Soho, if we’re being specific. Er, I’m afraid this is a silly question, but where -?”

“D-Dorset.” The man exhaled. For a moment, his focus wavered, before it snapped back.

  
“Southern England? Dear me, I’m quite far off from home then.” Aziraphale noted as he looked about.

He glanced to his left, spotted the first man again.

“That man,” He started with a dampened voice. “he’s the reason you’re…well, not alright.”

  
“ _Stabbed_.” Hissed the man as he gripped his chest. “Probably dying. _Damnit_.”

He gestured over at the first man.

“He’s wanted on several charges of assault. Car theft. Harassment. I – _we_ were pursuing him. Going to bring him to justice but… _bloody hell_ – “

He winced, hissed through a probable jolt of pain as he slacked against Aziraphale’s hand.

  
“You and her then.” Aziraphale gestured at the woman. “You’re both cops, I presume?”

  
“Detectives.” The man clarified.

He furrowed his brow at Aziraphale.

“You…Azir…Azira…”

  
“Aziraphale, and not a trouble, dear boy. It’s not exactly a common name, is it?” Aziraphale smiled.

  
The man still frowned.

“Why are you here?”

  
“ ** _That is what I desire to understand as well._** ”

  
Aziraphale’s face went white.

His gaze travelled up.

So did the familiar-looking stranger.

  
And there he was, a wavering blot of swallowed light, face like a skull.

He didn’t carry a scythe; that was simply a myth.

In truth, he didn’t need one.

He was imposing enough on his own.

  
“ ** _Principality,_** ” Death spoke, voice smooth and clear. “ ** _this is not your place. You know not to meddle in my work._** ”

  
“Yes. I-I am fully aware. We’ve spoken about this before.” Aziraphale stuttered. “B-But, if I were to be honest, which I am, I haven’t the faintest why I’m here either.”

  
Death stroked where his chin would be.

Despite the lack of eyes, there was a curious look across his face.

“ ** _You were brought here then? Is that what you’re suggesting?_** ”

  
“To be frank, I thought this might be _your_ doing, after I met this man here.”

  
“ ** _I would not, and have not, called upon the angels during times like this._** ” Death nodded. “ ** _Curious indeed._** ”

He glanced down, empty sockets peering into the man’s soul.

“ ** _But no matter. An angel’s presence or not, I am here for you, Alec Hardy. I am to usher you forth into the life after death. Be not afraid, for this is painless, and to pass is like to fall asleep._** ”

  
“Wait,” Aziraphale threw out a hand.

  
Death paused as his gaze snapped to the angel.

“t-there,” Aziraphale swallowed as sweat beaded on his brow. “must be a reason I was called here. Either he or _someone_ , perhaps Her, has decided that he requires counsel? Surely that must be why I’m here…a sort of, erm, representative of Heaven?”

  
“ ** _Would that not suggest that a representative of Hell be present too?_** ”

  
“N-Not necessarily! No, no, uh, that would be most unneeded.” Aziraphale fumbled with his buttons. “B-Besides I’m certain they’d, well, support your side. Not to say that you are, since you’re not, aligned with them. But as an agent of Heaven…I would support this man receiving time for, well, confession. Relinquishment of errors as it were. Putting to rest any unfinished business.”

  
“ ** _You wish for time, then,_** ” Death clarified slowly. “ ** _to save his soul._** ”

  
“If you would be so kind, I would appreciate that.” Aziraphale smiled.

  
Death thought a moment, stroked their metaphorical chin.

Then, assented with a nod.

“ ** _Very well. This is highly unorthodox, but I am, shall we say, curious. I shall grant you half an hour, Principality. For the duration, I shall extend my power to keep time from progressing. Counsel this man, but do not heal away his wounds. I shall depart and return upon the lapse of the given time._** ”

  
“I do appreciate this. Thank you.”

  
“ ** _Thank me not until when, and if, your work is completed._** ”

At that, Death’s form faded away.

  
Aziraphale released the breath he hadn’t realized he held and met the man’s, now identified as Alec Hardy, gaze.

“Goodness, that was something, wasn’t it?” He shakily smiled.

  
Hardy, however, only stared with furrowed brow.

“Why are you doing this for me?” He asked.

  
Aziraphale’s smile faded.

“Well, for one, I am an angel, as you might’ve heard.” He explained. “And second, I am still curious and suppose I must be here for a reason. Death was telling the truth; normally an angel isn’t present at a mortal’s passing.”

  
“Thought I heard about people praying in their last moments. You don’t come to comfort them?”

  
Aziraphale’s smile fully vanished.

“I – “He started. He bit his lip, fingers fiddling together. “– I haven’t before.”

  
Hardy’s brows relaxed but didn’t lighten.

He, instead, only sighed with thinned lips.

Coughed into his hand.

And laid against Aziraphale’s hand.

  
“Think you should just let me go then. Appreciate your kindness, but – “

  
“What, no! No, I-I can’t. Not in good conscience.” Aziraphale protested with worried eyes. “Just because I wasn’t…wasn’t _brought_ before doesn’t mean I can’t now! Surely, well, you must’ve been praying? To the Almighty? Perhaps a saint or two?”

  
Hardy’s eyes lowered and he shook his head.

“No.”

  
“Oh.”

Hardy’s gaze met Aziraphale’s once more, guard raised, a glint of gritted teeth.

“I don’t mean to offend. I didn’t pray because I never had faith in anything like this. Religion, angels, the like. Don’t believe in it.”

His mouth shut and he shrugged.

“Well, ‘cept angels. I guess I have to believe in those now.” He chuckled softly. “I can see you, you’re real. Unless you’re some dying hallucination – “

  
“I’m certain I’m not that.” Aziraphale smiled. “I am quite real.”

  
Hardy stared at him, confusion and conflict waring in his eyes.

“Surprised you’re not angry at me.”

  
“Why would I be?”

  
“I just said I never believed in the lot of you. Your boss or whatnot.”

  
“You’re hardly the first.”

  
“And you don’t care?”

  
“I think ‘care’ isn’t the correct term.” Aziraphale tutted. “More, I don’t see it as a reason to abandon you.”

  
In Hardy’s eyes, just barely, his guard weakened.

That old, steel-built guard he cultivated over his lifetime.

It faltered.

“Soppy.”

  
“I have been called a sentimental sop before.” Aziraphale smally smiled. “And I suppose I am.”

  
Hardy made a non-committal noise and laid still, coughed and shuddered as blood pooled on his chest.

  
Aziraphale’s smile faded, the reminder of just how precious time is right now popping into his head.

“Alec – “

  
“Hardy.” He huffed. “Just Hardy. Never liked Alec.”

  
“Oh? I will respect that, but…well, it’s quite a lovely name.”

  
Hardy gave him a look, an odd one.

  
“It is. Believe it means, ‘defender of mankind’.”

  
“Yeah. My mum liked it.” Hardy’s eyes drifted skyward.

He took a deep, trembling breath.

Swallowed lowly.

“Look, I get it if you can’t tell me, but if you could…is she up there?”

  
Aziraphale’s eyes widened, searched and thought.

“Oh, well…I, um…”

Something popped in his mind, a small sound like a chime.

A face.

A name.

“Her name, it was Moira?”

  
“Yes.” Hardy said expectantly.

  
Aziraphale nodded.

“She is.” He answered. “And she’s happy.”

  
The tension in Hardy’s frame dissipated, and he sighed deeply, eyes closed, tears pricking the edges as he nodded.

“Good.” He said in near whisper. “Good.”

  
“I could check for your father – “

“ _No_.” Hardy snapped; eyes flared.

He gritted his teeth and forced himself partway upright.

He grunted and pressed his hands behind him.

“I don’t want to know where he ended up. I-If he, somehow, ended up _there_ with her…”

  
“Well, given how _strongly_ you feel about him, I, er, don’t believe he’d be in Heaven.” Aziraphale fumbled.

  
“I thought that’s not how it works.” Hardy retorted. “I thought salvation was beyond ‘our understanding’. _That’s_ what I was told my whole life. Every _time_ I met a religious person _that’s_ what they said.”

  
“I-I mean, that’s not technically incorrect – “

  
“So, he could be then. Probably is. Up there.”

Hardy laughed, a harsh laugh, that devolved into another rough cough.

“Of course.” He muttered as he held his mouth. “Of bloody course…they’d end up there _together_.”

  
“I mean…I don’t know. There’s a chance he isn’t up there. I-I don’t…I’m sorry, I’m afraid that isn’t my…my department – “

  
“Do you think they’re yelling at each other?”

  
Aziraphale stopped.

“I’m sorry?”

  
A rueful look crossed his face.

“That’s all they did when I was a kid. Yell at each other. She’d start sometimes. He’d start most times. Didn’t matter. In the end, they were yelling all the same.”

He sniffed.

“I don’t imagine that changing.”

  
Aziraphale sat back, hands at his sides, lost for words or anything to provide.

  
“They should’ve gotten a divorce. They never did though. Devout Catholics. Raised me the same.” He admitted.

  
“You said you weren’t religious.”

  
“I’m not.” Hardy’s gaze softened. “Don’t think I ever was.”

His lips thinned.

“Ever will be.”

  
“You don’t have to be.”

  
Hardy frowned, scrunched his face.

“I-I don’t _get_ you, Aziraphale.” He snapped. “I thought you were here to redeem my soul or something. Win another life to your side.”

  
“I’m here for _you_ , Hardy.” Aziraphale asserted. “I feel I was brought here because you wanted someone like me in this moment. As for why, dear boy, that’s for _you_ to tell me.”

  
“I don’t _know_ why!” Hardy hissed. “I don’t! I have nothing, _nothing_ , left to finish.”

  
“No regrets?”

  
“Plenty.” Hardy gritted. “But it doesn’t matter now.”

  
“But it does! Hardy,” Aziraphale shook his head. “it all matters here. This is your _chance_ to, well, perhaps we can’t solve things with the time left, at least voice them? Make peace with the past?”

  
“It _doesn’t_ matter.”

  
“It does though.”

  
“I said I’ll be _fine_.”

  
“Oh, knock that off!” Aziraphale snapped. “Dear boy, I won’t hear another word of it! Now, I can’t pretend I know your life. But even the smallest morsel you’ve given, there must be _something_ , and I am giving you _full permission_ , without judgement, to release it.”

His hands balled into fists.

“Now, _please_ , I’m asking you to let me _help_ you. Not because I’m an angel, and no, not to ‘win’ souls for Heaven. Just because I _want_ to. Plain and simple.”

  
Hardy, for a moment, sat there, hand over his stab wound.

The light in his eyes, once icy, was thawing.

He glanced over at the second person, the woman, still frozen in her pursuit.

  
Aziraphale followed his eyes.

“Tell me about her then.” He panted. “Who is she?”

Hardy’s lips thinned.

“Detective Sergeant Ellie Miller, Wessex Police, Broadchurch. Worked together for years now, started on the Latimer case – “

  
“Dear boy, if I wanted those details, I’d snatch a business card.” Aziraphale’s smile was tight.

  
“I’m _telling_ you who she is.”

  
“You know, full well, you aren’t.” Aziraphale scolded. “Tell me who she is to _you_.”

He folded his arms.

“And believe me, I have quite a well of patience. If you’d like to play games with your last half an hour, I can allow it.”

  
Hardy’s eyes widened.

“You wouldn’t.”

  
“Would you like to find out, DI Hardy?”

  
Hardy wavered as his gaze returned to Ellie.

He looked on, took in the look of horror.

He felt his heart sink.

  
He took a breath.

“She’s Miller.” He answered. “My work partner. My closest friend. Was at my hospital bed twice. Wanted to kill me both times. Cracked Sandbrook wide open. Brilliant. Stubborn as hell.”

He chewed his lip.

“She’s the person I’d want with me at…well, now. Because I _know_ she’ll never give up until that murderer is behind bars, until the community is safe.”

“And when I’m gone, she’ll – “

Hardy went silent.

His pupils shrunk, stuck straight forward, deep in a sudden thought.

  
Aziraphale started to reach for him.

  
Hardy’s face strained, shoulders shaking, voice tense and hushed.

“– she’ll keep an eye on Daisy.”

His eyes fell to the earth, his free hand gripped his knee.

“ _Daiz_.” He croaked.

He sucked a sharp breath, steeled himself.

Bowed his head.

Swallowed a sob.

“I-I thought I was ready.” Hardy whispered. “I’d gotten ready with m-my heart. I thought I was okay with…not seeing her again…”

The first tears slipped.

“M’not. I need to see her. I-I can’t go without – “

His gaze snapped to Aziraphale, watery and pleading.

“ _Please_.”

  
Aziraphale paused.

Thought.

The only thing Death had forbidden was healing him.

There was no more hesitation.

“Of course.”

  
He snapped his fingers.

  
And they reappeared in Hardy’s house on the cliffs, in the lived-in hallway.

There was scarce decoration, only a few stock photos.

Aziraphale looked about as he kept Hardy propped up, shoulder under his arm.

“Your home is lovely.”

  
“My _home_.” Hardy smirked. “Can’t believe it.”

  
They staggered down the hallway, towards the only room illuminated in the house.

“Told Miller how much I hated Broadchurch. Still do.” Hardy noted. “Vacationed here as a lad with my mum and dad. Hid under the cliffs as they argued. Never got why people found the sea _relaxing_.”

His tone grew wistful.

“Yet I couldn’t picture another place I’d stay. Guess it was the one place I felt useful.”

  
“The one place you belonged?” suggested Aziraphale.

  
Hardy paused; gaze lost in thought.

“…suppose so.” He relented.

  
Aziraphale, with his free hand, nudged a door open.

  
They stopped in the doorway.

  
Daisy was there, laying on her bed, laptop on her lap.

She was watching a movie without headphones.

Her lips were upturned into a small smile, a look of enjoyment.

  
Hardy’s head lifted.

“Daisy…” He said.

He removed himself from Aziraphale, stumbled across her floor.

  
Aziraphale followed at a respectful distance.

  
He fell to his side, supported by the wall, as his hand darted in the space, hesitant.

“She hates it.” He admitted. “Hates it when I get soppy.”

  
“I think she’d understand this once.” Smiled Aziraphale.

  
Hardy bit the inside of his cheek.

He pushed himself from the wall, stumbled to her side.

With his non-bloodied hand, he rested it on her shoulder.

He kissed the top of her head.

“I love you so much, Daiz.” He whispered. “And I am so, _so_ proud of you. If I could, I’d tell you that every day.”

He chuckled.

“And you’d hate that, wouldn’t you? I’d mean it though. You’re…you’re the one who kept me going and, I _know_ how soppy it is, but when I was gone? There wasn’t a day I wasn’t thinking about you. Hoping you were okay. Just…”

A few tears landed in her hair.

“…missing you.”

  
He stayed there, swaying gently as he rocked, her unmoving in the frozen time.

His eyes fell shut.

“Maybe that was it, Aziraphale. My regret.” He noted. “I’ve been a lot in my life, but…but I don’t think I was ever _brave_. Not without help. If I had been braver, I wouldn’t be saying all this now. When I’m…when I’m about to die.”

He shook his head.

  
“You _are_ brave, Hardy.” Aziraphale said. “You’re being brave right now.”

  
“You had to kick me in the ass first.” Hardy smirked.

  
“Dear boy, this is all still you. Help or not, it’s you in the end.”

  
Hardy’s eyes strained, squeezed shut, tears pouring out in earnest.

He kissed his daughter’s head again as he faltered, fell to his knees.

Wept against her comforter.

  
Aziraphale finally crossed over, knelt by his side.

With a cautious glance, he placed a hand on Hardy’s back, looked at Daisy.

Listened as Hardy’s tears continued, until they slowly faded.

He snapped his fingers.

And they were back in the field, back where Hardy had been stabbed.

  
Hardy was taking deep breaths, intercut by hisses and gasps as he grabbed at his stab wound, which had started bleeding again.

“I’m running out of time, aren’t I.”

  
Aziraphale, lips pursed, pulled out his pocket watch.

Checked the time.

“We don’t have much left, no.”

  
Hardy sniffed, wiped the tears from his eyes.

Pulled himself again to his feet.

  
“Hardy – “

  
“Let me.” Hardy insisted.

He turned and started, ever so slowly, towards Ellie.

When he reached her, faced her, his eyes fell to her hand.

He took it.

Gave it a squeeze.

Gave her a small smile.

Opened his mouth.

  
Then collapsed.

  
Aziraphale rushed over in time to catch him as Hardy gurgled in his arms.

“I-I think, this might be – “

“I’m out of – “Hardy gasped.

  
“ ** _It is time, Alec Hardy. We can stall no longer._** ”

  
Both their gazes snapped over, to where Death loomed once more.

His figure drew close, tendrils of his cloaks flicking and wavering.

His hand was outstretched.

  
Aziraphale’s pupils shrunk.

  
“Aziraphale.”

  
His gaze snapped back down.

Widened.

His face went gray.

  
The light in Hardy’s eyes was fading, so quickly, his color dissipating.

His breathing, already labored, was so slow and unsteady, barely a rhythm.

And oh no, there was _so_ much blood.

Yet, he offered a weak smile.

“Thanks.” He said in a whisper. “Guess you were right in the end. Had some unfinished business after all.”

  
“O-Oh, not a trouble at all.” Aziraphale eked as he nervously surveyed him. “F-Forgive me for my own soppiness, but I…I might’ve liked a little more time to, you know, talk. You seem like a fine fellow and oh…oh dear me.”

  
Hardy’s smile weakened further.

“Yeah,” He said, barely audible. “think I would’ve liked that.”

Death’s hand approached, hovered ever closer to Hardy’s chest.

“ ** _No more stalling, now. It is time to go._** ”

  
The field exploded with light.

Even Death was thrown back, stumbled and shambled back, recoiled at the sight.

  
Aziraphale panted, wings fully extended and arching around Hardy, celestial light burning as bright as it could, near blinding in intensity.

He’d already tucked Hardy close to his chest, protecting his eyes, as tendrils of light surrounded the detective.

  
Hardy’s body stiffened, tensed as blood evaporated into mist, flesh and muscle stitching together.

He froze mid-gasp, eyes rolling to the back of his head.

The stab wound was receding.

  
“ ** _We had a deal, Principality._** ”

  
“Yes, I am aware of that.” Aziraphale noted. “I am still acting within our contract.”

  
“ ** _You are healing away his wounds._** ”

  
“I am _not_ , if you look closely.” Aziraphale lifted a hand, revealing the wound, still present but far less grave. “He is still injured, will still need a doctor. I have not healed it away.”

  
Death looked on, expression unreadable and eye sockets fixed on Aziraphale’s own eyes.

  
Aziraphale’s bravado hesitated.

“I-I am sorry. I know I’m not supposed to meddle in your work, Death, but…well, this man is under my protection now. I _am_ a guardian in design, after all.”

He swallowed a thick breath.

“And if you have qualms with my decision…well, address it with me, not him. I’m certain we could, er, create a sort of compromise.”

  
Death stared on, watched as Aziraphale’s healing light faded from Hardy, leaving the detective worn out and limp in his arms.

His milky teeth ground together as he tapped his chin.

“ ** _I shall allow this without compromise._** ”

  
Aziraphale couldn’t hide his shock.

“You…you what?”

  
Death started to turn away.

“ ** _You and I are both aware that the earth, and humanity, is living on borrowed time. Armageddon approaches in but a year. His soul shall be mine in due time, along with all living creatures big and small. To wait a little longer is no burden on my mind._** ”

“ ** _So no, I consider it not a win for yourself, Principality. This man may be in your protection but only for the moment. Even you cannot stall the works of the universe, and I am inevitable._** ”

His form faded, bit by bit, shrinking into the long shadows.

“ ** _Until then, Principality._** ”

  
And he was gone.

Aziraphale was left with only Hardy, the droplets frozen around them ever so slowly returning to motion.

  
“W-What did he mean about Armageddon - ?” Hardy croaked.

  
“Oh, never mind about that. That, well, is for another time.” Aziraphale assured.

  
Hardy sighed, coughed a cough free of blood, looked on at Aziraphale with a confused look.

“You…You defied Death. For me.”

  
Aziraphale gave a shaky laugh and shrugged.

“Well, it didn’t feel right for you to go so soon. You have a daughter after all.”

  
Hardy gave him a look, a scrutinizing look.

Nevertheless, his mouth ticked into a small smirk.

“You bloody liar. That isn’t it. Not all of it.”

  
“Oh. Oh, well, I do suppose you’re a detective.” Aziraphale flummoxed. He fiddled with his bowtie. “I, um, did mean what I said earlier. I would like to get to know you a bit more. Perhaps, erm, meet in less than dire circumstances? Only if you’d be alright with that.”

  
“I wasn’t lying either.” Hardy nodded. “I’d like that too.”

  
“Oh.” Aziraphale turned the lightest bit of pink. He cleared his throat. “Well, jolly good. Do you, uh, have one of those cellular devices?”

  
“Think I left it in the car.”

  
“Oh bother.”

  
Hardy watched as motion returned to Ellie; she remained in slow motion but her pace was increasing.

“Think time’s about to resume. You should go.”

  
“Ah, yes, I should.” Aziraphale laid Hardy down where he found him, deep in the grass.

He snapped his fingers and slipped a small piece of paper into his pocket.

“My card. Well, my shop’s card. You’re also free to visit. If you’d like. Though it is quite the drive for you.”

  
“Might not hide it there.” Grunted Hardy. “They’ll tear that off me at hospital.”

  
“Really? How inconvenient.” Muttered Aziraphale.

  
“I’ll make sure they don’t though.”

  
“Oh…how kind of you.”

  
“Not really.”

Aziraphale stood, rain dotted his head as it drew close to normal speed.

“I suppose, until next time, DI Hardy.”

  
Hardy blinked slowly, nodded.

“Until next time.”

  
Aziraphale snapped and vanished, the scene resuming as normal.

  
Ellie slid to her knees, hands at Hardy’s shirt as he fought to stem the blood flow, now only thin trickles.

  
“Don’t worry about me.” He grumbled. “Get the guy.”

  
Ellie bit back a curse and scrambled to her feet.

Seconds later, Hardy heard the thump of a body hitting the ground, the shouts of Ellie reading off his rights and cuffing him.

  
The other PC was at his side, calling an ambulance.

  
As he did, Hardy felt at his coat pocket, finding the card inside.

It left his fingers slightly tingly, perhaps the remnant of angelic power.

He sighed in assurance that it was there, that he hadn’t hallucinated the encounter.

  
He laid still, waited for the ambulance, with full intent that, upon seeing his daughter next, he’d scoop her into his arms.

Soppy or not, that was the plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1st time writing hardy/aziraphale n feel i could've done better but ehhhhh i tried, more pre-ship than ship but hope it was still good


	17. Hallucinations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 16 - Hallucinations
> 
> Follow up to "Open Water". Months after his rescue, Hardy is still struggling with sleep issues. It comes to a head one day when an unwelcome, familiar figure returns.
> 
> "Open Water": https://archiveofourown.org/works/22079509/chapters/52692859
> 
> CW: self-worth issues, trauma

Going forward was about routines.

  
It was about the new routines, which Hardy found himself having a few.

  
Up early in the morning, before Ellie began to stir, he would shower.

He’d take in the sight of Broadchurch, slumbering below, and breathe in the crisp air, untainted yet by the heat of the morning, on his deck.

He’d start the coffee, make himself a cup of tea.

  
If he didn’t get distracted, he’d start breakfast.

  
He’d already been up for hours by the time Ellie stirred, followed by Fred and last of all Tom, who’d shamble into the kitchen in various states of readiness.

  
This defined his routine, the one he’d followed for much the time since he’d been rescued.

  
And it satisfied him.

  
He’d followed his routine that morning and was prepping eggs for scrambles.

Shells cracked, egg whites and yolks whipped into cohesion, light seasoning so everyone could have what they wanted.

He set the bowl aside, reached for the stove.

Turned the knob.

It gave a short series of clicks before the flame burst to life.

  
_A lighter._

_Silver steel burnt orange._

_The bitter scent of flame._

_Beg like the_ dog _you are._

_Burning, burning, burning, BURNING_

_  
_…

Sweat beaded at his brow.

His heartbeat in his ears.

Perhaps it’d be best if everyone made their own scrambles today.

He glanced at the toaster.

At least he could make the toast.

  
He’d started the process of buttering the first pair, knife trembling clumsily, when a hand laid against his back.

“You’re up early.”

  
“I usually am.” He glanced behind. “Jam?”

  
“Ta.” Ellie smiled as she poured herself coffee.

She lingered in the kitchen, relaxed against the counter, eyes on Hardy as he bustled about with breakfast.

  
She must’ve grown bored at some point, as Hardy realized when he felt her rest against his back, arms trying to snake around him.

“Can I _help_ you?” He smirked.

  
“Mmph. We should go cuddle.” She said; voice muffled.

  
“I’m busy.”

  
“Stop being busy then.” She rebutted as she breathed deeply. “Mm, new cologne? I like it.”

  
“ _Away_ , lass.” He scolded with a smile as he twisted in her grasp. “How am I supposed to get anything done like this?”

  
“Like I said, you don’t _have_ to be busy.”

  
“ _Not_ when I’ve got breakfast to make.” Hardy noted. “And not when your boys eat like horses.”

“And you wondered about my bills. _That’s_ why.” She said as her eyes travelled.

Fell upon the as of yet untouched bowl of eggs.

  
Hardy’s eyes followed hers.

The determination melted from his expression.

“Thought might be best everyone make their own eggs.” He explained. “Good for Tom to, ah, learn some life skills.”

  
“Right.” Ellie noted.

She sat back, continued to watch as Hardy hurried about, never stopping or slowing.

“So, I was wondering something.”

  
“Thought you were luring me back to bed.”

  
“Oi. Not just that.” She gave him a look. “I do. It’s important.”

Her smile remained as her expression sobered.

“Wanted to know about last night. Supplements. You took them?”

  
Hardy’s lips thinned.

He nodded, continued about his work.

“I did. And did.”

  
“Alright? So?”

  
“They were fine.”

  
“Lovely that they were _fine_ ,” Ellie rolled her eyes. “But I wanted to know if they helped at all.”

  
Hardy remained silent. He finished buttering the toast and slid the plates aside.

He took his cup of tea and sipped, eyes away from Ellie.

  
“They didn’t, did they?”

  
He mulled a bit.

“Might need a few nights to take.” He mumbled. He screwed his brows in thought. “Thought that’s how supplements worked. They have to build up in your system and _then_ they work.”

  
“Hadn’t heard that about melatonin.” Ellie shook her head.

“Really?”

  
“Beth made it sound pretty immediate.”

  
“Might’ve been for her. Just isn’t for me.” Hardy shrugged as he took a bite of toast.

  
Ellie’s lips thinned; brow furrowed as she watched her partner.

“And you took the full dose? Per package instructions.”

  
“Aye.”

  
“It should’ve worked.”

  
“Well, it _didn’t_ , but I’m not that bothered, El.” Hardy huffed. “It’s not like I don’t sleep.”

  
“You know this isn’t about that.” Ellie frowned. “I know you ‘sleep’, Hardy, but you don’t sleep much. Or _well_.”

She pointed to his eyes.

“And before you argue, your dark circles beg to differ.”

  
“Bit of a low blow.”

  
“You know this isn’t about that!” She frowned. “Alec, I’ve been waking up alone for a few times too many lately. You aren’t sleeping through the night, I know it.”  
  


“I wake up at times.” He mumbled into his tea. “Can’t get back to sleep.”

  
“Alright. Okay. But we can work with that.” Ellie clasped her coffee mug. “Any idea why?”

  
“If I knew _that_ , wouldn’t I have solved it myself?” Hardy snapped.

  
“I am trying to help you, Alec Hardy, and I will _not_ take being snapped at!” Ellie protested. “God, what has gotten _into_ you lately??”

  
“Nothing I’m not used to dealing with.” Hardy grumbled.

  
Ellie fumed, glared and stormed.

Until her eyes fell closed and she took a deep breath.

She pushed some hair from her face.

“Maybe this isn’t a good time.” She noted. “We’re getting too heated.”

Hardy didn’t respond; he kept his gaze on his tea.

  
She nodded, chewed her lip.

“Right. That’s…right.” She glanced at the microwave’s clock.

She sighed.

“Shit, need to get going.” She poured her coffee into a takeaway cup and wrapped her toast to go.

  
She grabbed her purse and, partway towards the door, she stopped.

“We’ll talk about this later, okay?”

  
Hardy looked up and gave a shallow nod.

  
“I’m serious, Hardy.” She emphasized. “I’m worried about you.”

She pulled her purse strap tighter.

“I’ll see you tonight. Love you.”

  
“Love you too.” Hardy said softly.

  
She nodded, gaze solemn and concerned, as she walked out the door.

  
Leaving Hardy alone in the kitchen.

  
\--

  
The boys were up and fed in short fashion.

Tom met up with a carpool of his mates and they were off to school.

All Hardy had to do was bring Fred to his school, which was easy enough.

The boy, unusually so, didn’t put up a fuss with getting ready, and even had his homework ready to go.

  
Hardy almost wished he threw a fit.

Because now, with hours to spare, he was alone.

He also almost wished Jenkinson hadn’t been so generous with his sick leave.

One can only do chores for so many days in a row before getting bored, and he’d long passed that line.

With being bored came many perils, the most pertinent of which were rampant thinking.

Something Hardy did in spades.

  
Sometimes it was focused.

Other times, random.

  
Today it was the former.

  
He plopped himself on his couch, sank into its cushions and let his eyes flutter shut.

He wanted to try and nap, he really did.

He hoped that, maybe, if he got some sleep, he could better function and handle the future conversation with Ellie.

In particular, apologizing profusely to her, because he’d been a right dick.

Which he had been, he knew that.

  
And it sat like an acidified stone in his gut.

  
He ran a hand down his face, groaned and left it over his nose and mouth.

“ _I was awful to her._ ” He thought. “ _She didn’t deserve it. I should apologize now._ ”

His mobile laid on the coffee table in front of him.

He fished it and opened his messaging app.

Tapped his conversation history with her.

  
…

_She’s right pissed with you still. Leave her be._

_  
_He frowned, thought, then reluctantly closed the app.

“ _Probably better to do it in person anyways._ ”

He threw the mobile aside.

And laid back against the couch.

  
He let his eyes close once more, tried to dull his thoughts so he could slip calmly, cleanly into the Sandman’s realm.

Not that he was still sure he _wanted_ to enter such a place, but he knew it’d be better to try.

Perhaps, in the daytime, it’d be a restful, undisturbed sleep.

He could only hope.

  
…

A door slammed shut.

  
His eyes shot wide open.

He glanced over his shoulder, towards the noise.

It came from down the hallway.

He furrowed his brow.

“Someone there?” He called.

  
No reply.

He frowned and lifted himself partway up the couch.

“Tom? Home already?” He glanced at the clock.

There were still hours before either boy was expected home.

A chill settled in Hardy’s spine.

“El? You…forget something?”

  
Nothing.

  
Hardy’s senses were alight as he drew himself to his feet.

He crept around the couch, down the hallway and towards the source of the sound, though now only an auditory memory.

He checked every door, every possible room.

But all the doors were open.

He tested for the noise; he roughly shoved one door against the wall.

It produced a loud slam, but not the same sound he heard before.

His hand slipped down the wood.

He sighed and shook his head.

“ _I’m hearing things._ ” He noted with a grim look. “ _I really must be tired_.”

He turned and started back towards the couch.

  
“Hardy.”

  
He jumped, spun on his heel with hands at the ready.

His hands fell.

“E-Ellie? What…what are you doing home?” He sputtered. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  
Ellie tucked her sleeves under her armpits as she gazed with wide eyes.

“You’re keeping secrets from me again.”

  
Hardy’s brow knit together.

He paused, tried to process the words she’d spoken.

“I…” He started, then stopped.

  
He took a better look at her.

…she hadn’t worn her orange anorak when she left.

She’d taken, lately, to wearing a new coat he’d gotten her.

It was orange, but closer to a blood orange.

She’d fussed at first at the color, but he saw her slowly gain a fondness for it.

  
It was the wrong coat.

  
It was the _wrong_ coat.

  
“No,” He shook his head and backed away. “oh no. _Shit_ , no. No, you…you shouldn’t be here. You’re not _supposed_ to be here. I’m off the boat, I’m _off_ the boat.”

  
Not-Ellie simply followed, pace kept steady, her eyes never leaving him.

“I am here though.” She answered. “And I bet you know why.”

“No – _stop_. Stop, go away. You’re not real, I _know_ that.” Hardy turned from her and stormed to the couch.

  
“I’m real.” She asserted. “Real enough to call you out.”

Her pace quickened.

“Why have you been lying to me, Hardy? You said we’d talk things out from now on.”

  
“Not with…not with _you_ , I – agh – you’re not real! I’m not talking to you.”

  
“Seems like you’re talking to me plenty.” She pouted her lower lip.

  
Hardy ran a hand through his hair, over his face, before he finally addressed her with a glare.

“What do you want?”

  
“Oh, real nice. I bet this is why she’s pissed at you, such a grumpy wanker.” Not-Ellie frowned.

  
“Is this it? You’re here just to throw insults?”

  
“No. I’m here because you and I both know you’re keeping secrets again.” She stepped even closer. “From me.”

  
“ _Not_ you. Not…damnit, _you_ aren’t Ellie. Stop pretending you’re her.”

  
“Then stop lying to me.”

  
“I’m not…I’m fine.” Hardy turned and stalked away.

  
“You can’t even say it, can you? You couldn’t convince me even if you tried.” She followed.

  
“What _purpose_ would talking to you have? You’re just…just some hallucin – some figment of my imagination, you’re _not_ a person.” He spat.

  
“Funny! You had a different tune _on the boat_.” Not-Ellie hissed.

  
Hardy stiffened, angered expression gone in a flash, replaced by a stricken look of horror as his mind reeled back to the water closet.

The smell of stale cleaning products, the tiled walls.

Damp, plastic floor beneath him.

He couldn’t move.

  
Can’t move now.

  
But he _can_ move, he isn’t there anymore.

  
He isn’t.

  
Yet he couldn’t move.

He stood stiff as a board as Not-Ellie approached, rounded him, stood facing him.

“You promised you’d tell me things, Hardy.” She stood with so little room between them. “But you haven’t mentioned the nightmares, have you?”

  
His mouth parted.

  
“You can’t lie. I see you; you know I do. Those dark circles, the agitation…textbook symptoms of sleep deprivation.” She cocked her head to the side. “Who do you think you’re fooling? Because it certainly isn’t me.”

Her expression softened, eyes wide and pleading.

“Why didn’t you just tell me, Alec?”

  
His mouth had gone dry.

His teeth gritted.

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

  
“Oh, well bravo, because I _am_ worried.” Not-Ellie scolded.

  
“I didn’t _want_ you to worry.” Hardy reiterated. “And you shouldn’t, El. You’re doing so much already, and I – “

  
“And you what?”

  
Hardy’s face tensed.

He could’ve bitten through his own jaw.

  
“Say it, Hardy.” Not-Ellie hissed. “If I’m _so_ not real like you said, you shouldn’t be afraid, should you? Like talking to air.”

Her gaze never deviated from him.

  
Hardy shuddered.

Tears pricked the corners of his eyes.

“– I’ve asked too much of you already.”

He deflated, fell back against the couch.

He stared up at the vision with watering eyes.

“You’ve done so much for me and I haven’t given a single thing back. I’m still a…a useless wreck. Can’t even go back to work and _you’ve_ been taking care of me. And what do I do? I-I snap at you, can’t, _fuck_ , even be a good partner to you.”

His teeth bore into his lip.

“M’sorry, El. I’m so, so sorry.”

  
Not-Ellie stared down, eyes low, arms crossed.

The air turned cold.

“Yeah,” She muttered. “you should be.”

  
She stepped into Hardy’s space, eyes burning as she craned down, peered into Hardy’s eyes.

“Because she _is_ giving you so much. So much time, so much understanding, and for what? You can’t even give her your trust, can you?”

  
“I-I do trust her – “

  
“But you don’t believe her!” Not-Ellie glowered. “If you did, why do you shower so early? You _know_ why you do it, you _know_ she said the scars didn’t bother her. But you still do it.”

  
“I just didn’t want – “

  
“You still think she’ll leave you! After _everything_ she’s done for you, you can’t even give her the benefit of the doubt! What _are_ you doing for her, Hardy? What? What? _What?_ ”

Not-Ellie was full on screaming, face inches away from his.

“What was the _purpose_ of staying alive then, huh?! What was _your purpose_ for staying alive if it wasn’t for her like you told me?! What is your point if you can’t keep a single, _fucking_ promise to her?!”

Hardy was pressed far back into the sofa, arms planted firmly by his sides, tears streaking down his face.

He stared, breath coming fast and shallow, at this warped version of Ellie screaming and shouting into his ears, so loud and impossible to ignore.

He shook his head with fervency as he scrambled back, clambered over the couch, tea cup falling to the floor as he did.

“Y-You’re not real…you’re not her, you’re nothing like Ellie – “

  
“If I’m not, then why aren’t you fighting back?!” She screamed.

  
“I – get away from me – “

  
“Do you want back on the boat?? Would you rather have died there?!”

  
“No! I – that isn’t – _shit_ – “

Hardy tumbled, fell over the couch and landed hard on the floor, a blanket de-tangling from his feet.

He scrambled onto his knees, onto his feet, and fled down the hallway.

His heartbeat stuttered in his ears, beat frantic and ill-paced, his eyes fixed on the floor.

They lifted.

  
She was there.

  
“ _Shit_!” He bit and stumbled to the side, toppling against a door.

Sprawled on his side, he clambered onto his back, feet towards the doorway and eyes fixed upon the looming figure.

  
Two more shadows stretched across the wall.

  
She took a step forward.

  
He threw out his legs, kicked blindly, meeting nothing.

His foot connected with something hard, flat, sent spikes of shooting pain up his leg.

The door slammed shut.

  
“N-No! No, no, no…” He mumbled as he scrambled back, floor smooth and cold beneath him.

And tilting.

Swaying.

Rocking.

  
The shadows lingered by the door’s gap, paced around as two voices rumbled.

Deep voices.

He knew them well.

  
Sweat fell and mixed with his tears and he crawled, spider-crawled back, his back hitting something smooth and cold.

Tile.

“ _No…_ ”

  
He looked around.

  
Simple tiling, the floor beneath him plastic.

The dripping of a shower head.

Rough texture of rope around his ankles and wrists.

A bellowing laugh from outside.

  
_Mackie_.

  
The clink of bottles, the cries of seagulls.

The floor dipped deep below him, a large wave rolling past.

The footsteps drew close, the floor creaking below them.

“ _No, no, no…n-no, no I e-escaped. I escaped, I was_ rescued _, t-this isn’t real…_ ” Hardy thought feverishly, hands reached into his hair to grip, to pull the thoughts from his brain.

  
_…I did escape, didn’t I?_

_  
_Hardy’s breath fell from him, lungs empty and mind swimming.

The burn of his wrists told him otherwise.

“ _Maybe I never did._ ”

Maybe it was all a detailed illusion, some dream of his, so alluring he’d bought it completely.

And lost it as soon as he took it for granted.

  
He croaked, laid flat against the tiled wall.

The footsteps lingered around the door, the crack of a belt and laughter echoing through the water closet.

He could smell the salty air.

And he could hear Joe’s voice.

It was so close.

  
“N-No…no…” He mumbled as he shook his head, tears flying free and throat closing.

A trembling hand reached to his neck.

He felt tenderness, bruising.

Hadn’t that healed?

What if it hadn’t?

  
“N-N-No…oh no, _shit_ … _shit_ , _shit_ , _shit_ – “He croaked.

A slam outside the room sent him crying to his side.

He curled into a tight ball, tucked his head to his chest.

Clung to the back of his head to, somehow, curl in tighter.

“No, please…please, I’m _sorry_ …please, leave me alone – “

The footsteps drew close.

The doorknob was _twisting_.

  
“S-Stop…stop… _stop_ – ‘

  
The door started to open.

  
“P-Please…”

\--

  
It took her until almost noon to realize that _darn it Ellie_ , she’d forgotten her lunch.

  
And as much as she’d like to take that as an excuse to buy takeaway, she’d promised herself she’d eat those leftovers.

  
So, despite the inconvenience, she left the office with the promise to be back as soon as she could.

The door unlocked with a click and she stepped inside, tossing her purse onto the table.

“Alright, I _know_ , I forgot my lunch.” She noted. “But I’m being good. I came back for it.”

She hung her coat.

“Least now we can have lunch together, right?” She said as she turned towards the living room.

  
She stopped.

  
She spotted the blanket strewn over the back of the couch; half draped on the floor.

Not odd but, still, she found herself creeping towards it with careful steps.

She approached the couch and peered over its back, expecting to see Hardy laid out and, _hopefully_ , sleeping.

  
He wasn’t.

She did find, however, his cup of tea.

Thrown to the floor, its contents soaked into the carpet.

The other contents on the coffee table were also in disarray.

  
She crouched down, righted the cup, felt her senses go on alert as she listened for something, _anything_.

“Hardy?” She called.

  
She soon heard it, the smallest something.

  
A cry.

  
From down the hallway.

  
“ _Shit_.” She hissed as she darted towards the hall. “Hardy??”

  
She stopped as she heard the sound again, coming from the bathroom.

  
“ _…p-please, I’m sorry…please, leave me alone –_ “

  
Her eyes widened, face grayed.

“H-Hardy?” She tried again.

She reached for the doorknob and turned.

  
“ _S-Stop, stop, stop…_ ”

  
“Hardy, I’m coming in.” She called.

She opened the door.

  
“ _Please…_ ”

  
She flicked the light switch.

  
And her heart broke.

  
There he was, on the floor, curled so tight he seemed too small.

All that was visible between clenched fingers was tufts of his hair.

His face was completely swallowed by his torso.

And his whole body was _shaking_.

“Hardy – “Her voice shrank as she crouched to his level, held a hand out with caution. She wasn’t sure if touching him would be the right call. “– Hardy, please, talk to me.”

  
To her initial relief, he lifted his head, eyes fixed on her.

But that immediately vanished once she saw the fear in his eyes, the shake of his head as he backed away.

  
“Mmph, no…no, I’m sorry…I’m sorry, _please_ …” He mumbled. “…y-you’re not real.”

  
“Har – Alec, it’s me.” Ellie assured as she crawled closer. “It’s me – Miller? Ellie?”

  
“N-N-No. No, no, no, no – “Hardy muttered, voice broken and hoarse.

  
“Hardy, what are you seeing?” Ellie hushed as she brought a hand forward, an offer awaiting permission.

  
Hardy’s eyes flitted down, fell upon her sleeve.

One cautious hand reached out, pinched the fabric and rubbed it between his fingers.

“G-Gray…you’re wearing a blazer.”

  
She furrowed her brow but, nevertheless, nodded.

“Yeah. Gray blazer, you…you helped me pick it out. Remember?”

  
She watched as he sighed deeply, eyes fluttering shut as he swallowed shuddering sobs.

“You’re real. Oh God, you’re _real_. It’s you.” He whispered as he pulled himself closer to her. “It’s you, it’s you.”

He dragged himself onto his knees and fell into her arms, face burrowed against her neck.

  
Ellie hesitated only a moment, confused and worried as her partner remained silent, breathing deeply and hands gripping her jacket.

Slowly, she returned his embrace, one of her hands carding through his hair.

“Yeah.” She confirmed quietly. “Yeah, it’s me. Really me.”

Her head tilted towards him and kissed the side of his head.

“I’m here, Alec. I’m here. It’s okay.”

  
She rocked him gently as she heard a shuddered sob, a hiccup, as they sat there on the bathroom floor.

\--

  
She was quick to call Jenkinson, give her the basics of the situation, that she’d be taking the rest of the day off.

  
She was thankful that, at least, Jenkinson was the understanding type.

  
Once Hardy’s crying slowed, she helped remove themselves from the bathroom and led him back to the living room.

She sat him on the couch once more, wrapped the tossed blanket around his shoulders.

  
He tucked it tight around him, head hung low and looking worse for wear, somehow more tired than he looked that morning.

She made them both cups of tea and sat next to him.

  
For a few minutes, nothing was said.

She would glance over, keep an eye on him, watch to see if he’d move or say something first.

But he only sat there, tea warming his hands.

  
Her lips thinned as she sighed, her own head dipping.

“I understand if you don’t want to talk about earlier.” She started.

  
Finally, he moved: a slow shake of his head.

“I need to.” His voice was rough and dry.

  
“Y-You don’t…” Her eyes shut and she shook her head. “…you don’t need to tell me if you’re not ready. I get it. I shouldn’t have tried to force things.”

  
“You weren’t forcing me.” Hardy breathed in the scent of herbal tea. “I-I was the one being a knob.”

  
“Mean,” She gave a small smile. “this morning _was_ awful.”

  
“It was.” He looked over with watering eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

  
Ellie’s smile vanished.

“Come here.”

  
She wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close.

  
Hardy followed and tucked himself against her once more.

  
Her fingers ran, up and down, across his arm and shoulder, her cheek rested against his head.

She listened as he shivered, less violently than before, his breathing slow and steady.

She listened as he sucked a breath, shuddered.

  
“I think I need help, Ellie.”

  
Her hand stilled.

“You mean…like a therapist?” She started carefully.

  
She felt him nod.

“Thought I could just get over…” He swallowed, paused. “…everything. I thought I’d be fine but El I-I – I’m not – “

  
“Shh, it’s okay. It’s okay.” Ellie cuddled closer.

  
“I didn’t want to tell you.” His voice croaked again. “I d-didn’t want to…felt like a – “

He sharply inhaled, stilled.

“– I’m not being the partner you deserve, El. I-I’m still a mess.”

  
“Hardy,” She turned to look him in the eyes.

  
In another situation, she might’ve felt some endearment at how Hardy stared at her, eyes wide and questioning like a mouse.

  
Here, though, it only broke her heart further.

  
Just how scared he was.

  
She ran a thumb across his cheek, let him lean into her touch.

“I love you.” She said. “And that won’t change, no matter what. Part of that is dealing with the not fun shit.”

She gave a small smile.

“I told you, that day in the bathroom, that I know we’re both messes. Still are, just different messes. And I wanted to be with you then, and still do now. That hasn’t changed.”

  
“Y-You did.” Hardy whispered as his gaze faltered. “M’sorry I forgot – “

  
“You didn’t. I know you didn’t.” She kissed his forehead. “Not really.”

She felt him tremble, a protest dying on his lips.

“You’re stuck with me. I won’t let you forget that.” She hushed. “I’m going to be there with you, through the good and bad, if you’ll stay with – “

  
“I will.” He cut her off. “No question.”

  
Her heart, once broken, melted.

“You soppy _knob_.” She smiled. “Didn’t let me finish.”

  
“I will though. Promise.” He looked into her eyes. “I love you, Ellie.”

  
They drew together, kissed gently.

When they parted, he fell against her once more.

“You have to get to the office, they’ll be wondering where you are.”

  
“Already told them I’m staying here. And I _am_ , no ifs, ands, or buts.”

She gave him a squeeze, sighed and rested her own cheek against his head.

“Won’t leave until you’re better. Or at least resting.”

  
“M-Might have…nightmares.” Hardy admitted, eyes averted with shame.

  
Ellie’s expression fell, but she only moved to set down her mug.

“Well…then I’ll just have to stay here. With you.” She assured. “And if you have a nightmare, I’ll be right here.”

  
Hardy grumbled, made a small remark of ‘not being a child’, but he ultimately assented.

  
She rearranged the blanket, so it covered the both of them, regretting not turning off the lights before doing so but, well, they’ll suffice.

Hardy rested against her as she carded a hand once more through his hair, gently stroking and massaging, until his eyes fell shut and his breathing evened out.

  
She knew, of course, this was only a temporary solution.

Hardy was right; she might not know the depths of what was happening, as much as she wanted to, but if today’s episode said anything, she knew that he needed more than she could give.

Expertise she didn’t have.

And she’d do anything to ensure he never went through such fear again, anything to ensure she wouldn’t find him curled up on the bathroom floor again.

And stay by his side the whole way.

  
But for now, a small victory, as Hardy seemed to finally sleep, though she caught the smallest of fitful murmurs and cries.

And each time they sprang up, she snuggled close, embraced until the noises died down.

And simply took in one Alec Hardy finally, peacefully, sleeping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tis has been SO HARD to write bc writnig a follow up to 'Open Water' has been a year long thing w nothing written soooo not a full sequel but something?


	18. Feral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 17 - Altered State (Alt. Prompt #6)
> 
> Hell doesn't think Crowley has been a proper demon. They decide to fix this with pure brimstone, sending Crowley into a semi-feral state.
> 
> CW: blood, injury, poisoning

“You know guys, this really was just rude. I mean I know, demons and all, but it’s unnecessary too. I _have_ legs. Could’ve walked down here.”

  
“We’re aware.” Dagon stalked with a sharkish smirk. “But how could we’ve guaranteed that you’d _stay_? None of us felt like running today.”

  
Crowley, flanked by two lesser demons, pulled at his chains which, of course, dampened his powers and kept him trapped in this less than convenient meeting.

They didn’t budge (not that he expected them to), so his attention returned to the two dukes and lord of Hell.

“Mean,” He bit his lip. “why would I run? Just a meeting, yeah? Normal, standard, Hellish meeting. I know they’re _boring_ but, really, I have standards. Running is beneath me.”

  
“Good to hear.” Ligur nodded. “Think we’ll keep the chains though. Better to be safe than sorry.”

  
“Not very demonic of you, Ligur.” Crowley mumbled.

  
“ _Enough_.” Hastur hissed. He looked at his fellow, high-ranked demons. “We’re here for a reason, yeah? Lil’ Crawly got some explaining to do.”

  
“Yeah, he do.” Ligur nodded. “Dagon? You got the files?”

  
“Of course. Right here.” Dagon snapped her fingers and a stain splattered, worn manila folder appeared in their hands.

She handed it down the line, ending at Hastur, who flicked upon the folder and thumbed through the paperwork.

  
“All bad things, I assume.” Crowley gave a weak smile.

  
“Definitely _not_ bad things.” Ligur smirked.

  
“You mean definitely not _good_ things.” Noted Hastur.

  
“Well, ‘bad’ as in we _like_ bad, and good is more for… _them_ , and – “

“ _Shut up_.” Spat Dagon. “The point is, Crawly, we’ve combed through your performance records and found them…lacking.”

  
“Oh? Lacking…like how? Not enough drowned kittens? Could see if I, eh, forgot a sack of them. Something like that. Is that still a thing?”

  
“ _Lacking_ , as in,” grinned Hastur, mouth full of maggots. “you haven’t been a proper demon lately, have you, Crawly?”

  
“ _Crowley_.”

  
“Reeking of Heaven,” sneered Dagon. “reported demonic activity so…mundane. Tell us, have you secured a _single_ soul in the last century?”

  
“World War II! That, uh, was mine. Thought that’d be enough for a few centuries at least.” Crowley nodded.

  
The trio of demons, however, shook theirs in response.

“Enough, Crawly?” Hastur tutted.

  
“ _That’s_ the problem right there, I think.” Frowned Ligur. “You think there’s such a thing as _enough_.”

  
“A real demon is eager to secure as many souls for our side as possible.” Dagon drawled with a glower. “Yet _you_ seem to just scrape by on the minimum. As if, dare I say, you’d rather _not_ tempt humans at all.”

  
“That is definitely not demonic.” Nodded Ligur. “Almost…like the _opposition_.”

  
“Wha – _nooo_. Oh, yikes, yeah no, that…that is _not_ what I meant at all. I just, you know, thought I’d take the down time to, uh…make up another big thing! Takes time, you know, to come up with a global war. Whisper in the right ears, push the right insurgency groups, it’s all a load of…something.” Crowley hoped they couldn’t see him sweat, which he had quickly started to do. “It’s all complicated, wouldn’t want to bore you with the details.”

  
The trio only stared with disdain.

That is, until the door to Hell’s dungeons swung open, and a demon decked in the thickest of safety gear, complete with rubber gloves, came in.

They were carrying a jar made of thick, black glass.

“Duke Hastur? Duke Ligur? Lord Dagon? I, uh, got what you wanted.”

  
Dagon grinned, her first real grin in the whole conversation, and clapped her hands together.

“Ah, running late, as hoped. Now gimmee.”

  
“Uh, I’d really recommend gloves, my Lord.” The demon’s muffled voice stumbled. “The, uh, stuff in here? Real potent. Even with the gear, thought I’d get seared from the inside out.”

  
Crowley’s eyes widened.

  
“Duly noted.” Lord Dagon snapped and not only was she wearing gloves, but she carried a set of tongs with excessively long handles.

She took the jar from the lesser demon and, indeed, nearly dropped it on first touch.

Still, she steeled herself in time to spin around and grin at Crowley.

“You know what’s in this jar, Crawly?”

The two lesser demons at Crowley’s side shoved him onto his knees as Hastur and Ligur snickered.

  
Crowley was feeling very, truly nervous.

  
Dagon poked the jar as she held it in front of him.

“In _this_ jar is brimstone of the vilest quality.” She crowed. “Fished from the very pit where our lord Lucifer fell. It’s the embers from _his_ fall that fuel the fires of Hell.”

  
“ _And_ ,” Hastur’s lips turned into a twisted grin. “should be just the thing to fix your non-demonic behavior.”

  
Crowley, finally, went ghostly white.

He struggled against his captors, his bonds, but neither faltered.

“H-Hey, come on, guys, isn’t this a bit overkill? I mean, do you _know_ that that’s what brimstone does to demons? Could, uh, do something less desired. Plus, seems _pretty_ hot. Might not be much of me…”

  
“ _I_ see it as win-win. Either it’ll make you shape up, be a better demon. Or you die.” Ligur shrugged.

  
Dagon unscrewed the lid and, instantly, the room flooded with an unbearable heat.

Bits of embers flew like fireflies from the opened jar, which bloomed with a fire unseen on earth and maybe, rarely seen in Hell.

It didn’t flicker, didn’t waver.

It just _burned_.

Dagon clacked the tongs and reached inside, clasped and removed the single piece of brimstone.

  
It was the size of a marble, rough and lumpy.

It glowed a bright, blinding red that caused the air in the room to radiate.

  
“Open wide, Crawly. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

One of the lesser demons punched Crowley in the gut, forcing him to gasp as the air escaped his lungs.

  
Dagon surged forward and shoved the burning stone into his mouth, removing the tongs right before the second demon forced Crowley’s mouth shut.

  
Crowley’s eyes shot wide, overcome by serpentine yellow, pupils blown wide and almost round.

Tongues of flames licked at his lips, beneath his nose, as he struggled against his captor’s hand, desperate to release a litany of screams and howls.

He fought and squirmed, muffled shrieks eking forward as the lesser demons strained to keep ahold of him.

  
Hastur rolled his eyes, grunted a few grumbles of annoyance, and snapped his fingers.

“Release his jaw. Can’t scream even if he wanted to now.”

  
The lesser demons stepped away, arms folded.

  
Crowley fell to his hands and knees, hands scrambling at his mouth, desperate to pry his lips apart.

But they wouldn’t budge.

Like they’d been superglued together.

The skin of his cheeks grew translucent as the light blazed brighter, the agony mounting.

  
“I’d swallow the stone if I were you.” Dagon warned. “Might make your suffering at least a _little_ more tolerable.”

  
Crowley had to think, near impossible given the pain, through Dagon’s advice.

Because why would the Lord of Files even give the _meagerest_ bit of relief to him?

Wasn’t the point of all this for him to suffer?

And he wasn’t even certain swallowing the stone was a good idea.

Part of him hoped, bleakly, that if the stone would kill him, it might kill him faster if he kept it in his mouth.

Its flames could incinerate his head and he’d be dead before the rest of his body burned.

  
Then, Dagon stepped and gripped his hair, yanked his head back.

“ _Swallow_ it, snake.” She hissed.

  
Tears gathered in Crowley’s eyes.

His charred tongue bent, curved under the stone.

And, reluctantly, he let the stone tumble, sear his throat and windpipe, and fall into his stomach.

  
Surprisingly, there was some truth to Dagon’s words: the immediate burn had ceased, the torment to his mouth gone.

What she _failed_ to mention was the flames, instead, coursed through every vein in his body, every cell and synapse, alighting them with hellish fire like lightning.

Strained whines and whimpers streamed through his sealed lips, mixing with the tears pouring over his face.

His eyes rolled to the back of his head as ugly gurgles joined his whimpers.

He fell limp in Dagon’s grip.

  
“What now, Lord Dagon?” inquired Ligur.

“He’ll be useless for a while.” Dagon noted. “We’ll toss him in a cell. Leave him there until the brimstone’s fires cool.”

  
“How long will that be?”

  
“Do you care?”

  
Hastur and Ligur smirked and, in unison, they shook their heads.

  
Dagon threw Crowley aside like some piece of garbage, the two lesser demons grabbing his elbows and dragging him deeper into the dungeon, the serpent demon groaning as they did.

She then snapped away the folder before leaving the dungeon, the dukes in tow, their days to proceed as if none of this had happened.

  
\--

  
It’d been three days since he’d heard from Crowley.

  
Perhaps centuries ago, this wouldn’t be concerning.

But in recent years, they at least tried to see each other once a month.

And they tried to keep conspicuous, regular contact, mostly by phone.

  
Aziraphale knew how attached he was to his mobile.

  
Yet, two days of calling, and nothing.

  
The first day, he hadn’t worried. He’d only called to confirm their plans for lunch the next day (with the clever alias of one John from the gardening club, whose begonia was ailing badly).

The second day, the lunch meeting missed, Aziraphale left a put-off message about how rude he was, demon or not, to skip an outing without so much as a word.

He followed it up that evening with an apology for his harsh tone.

The third day ushered Aziraphale’s first message to check in because, really, this was getting odd.

Even if the message were cryptic, Crowley would at _least_ let Aziraphale know he was still on the material plane.

He supposed he could be in Hell, stuck in some days long meeting.

Except, he’d stretched his senses down into Hell’s underbelly, and Crowley was nowhere to be found.

  
_That’s_ when Aziraphale started to worry in earnest.

  
He left nothing short of five messages of increasing concern on Crowley’s ansaphone before he chastised himself and agreed to not touch the phone for the rest of the night.

“I suppose he’s off on assignment. F-Forgot his mobile. Yes, that is it.” He’d told himself.

Never mind that Crowley had _never_ forgotten his mobile, was never this impossible to sense and contact, not in centuries at least.

  
No, this was simply a first.

Nothing to be concerned about.

  
He truly wished he could believe that as, when he tried to relax for the evening with a book, he couldn’t focus on a single word.

He could only wonder, and worry, about his demonic associate, the other half of the Arrangement.

  
One he might, after copious drinks and coaxing, admit as a friend.

Maybe.

  
\--

  
“You asked for me, Lord Dagon?”

  
Dagon glanced over at the demon, one simply known as Disposable, who’d scurried along to meet her and the other dukes’ steps.

“Ah, there you are. Yes, I believe we have need of you today.” She nodded. “This is an assignment of utmost importance and secrecy.”

  
“So, keep your gob shut.” Hissed Ligur.

  
“You have my word.” Affirmed Disposable, who then blinked. “Er, might I ask _what_ I’m supposed to do?”

  
They slowed upon reaching Hell’s dungeon, upon reaching the furthest and dankest cells made not of bars, but concrete and wrought iron doors with too small viewing windows.

  
“One of our projects,” Dagon tapped her knuckles against the door. “has been…percolating in this cell for the good part of a week. We need you to undo his bindings.”

  
“Oh?” Disposable leaned closer to the door, pressed his ear against the metal. He frowned. “Funny. I don’t hear anything.”

“You shouldn’t. His mouth was sealed.” Hastur noted. He crossed his arms. “We’ll need you to undo that too.”

  
Disposable shivered.

“This sounds pretty dangerous. Should I get a, uh, more powerful demon for this?”

  
“Little, bunny demon,” cooed Dagon as she leaned in close, prickly teeth on display. “are you really turning down an assignment from a _Lord of Hell_? Because that sounds like a pretty stupid decision.”

  
“O-Oh. Oh, uh, no. No, um, I’ll do it. Totally.” Disposable shrunk back.

  
Ligur snapped his fingers and the door unlocked with a _clunk_.

“Good luck.” He sniggered.

  
The door opened with a sharp creak as the three, high-ranked demons hid behind the door.

“Go on then.” Hastur urged.

  
Disposable visibly gulped before, step by step, he entered the cell.

  
The door slammed behind him.

  
“Eep!” yelped Disposable.

He squinted at the bleak darkness, somehow darker than normal, Hellish darkness, and searched for the ‘project’.

“Hello? Anyone home?”

  
At first, nothing.

Then, in the deepest shadow, two yellow circles.

Eyes.

Staring at him.

Sizing him up.

  
“Oh boy.” Swallowed Disposable. “Uh, hey there…guy? Fella? I’m here to, erm, undo those shackles of yours.”

He crept forward.

  
The eyes crept back.

  
“N-Not here to hurt you.” Disposable held up his hands. “Just…don’t hurt me, please. Gonna, ah, oh guess I don’t need to get close huh?”

With shaking hands, he lifted one and snapped.

  
There was the clattering of metal and the smell of ozone.

And a long, drawn out, hiss.

  
“See? You’re, uh, free. Nothing bad. Please don’t hurt me?”

  
The eyes fixed back on him.

Pupils widened.

There were teeth with long, sharp fangs.

With fire and smoke pooling between each tooth.

“Oh…oh no…” Disposable whimpered.

  
The owner of the eyes _pounced_.

  
The three high-ranked demons watched from the small viewing window as blood and viscera flew, Disposable’s scream lasting only seconds before dying to silence.

  
“Well…he’s definitely not dead.” Blinked Ligur.

  
“You’re gonna have a lot of paperwork.” Hastur noted to Dagon.

  
“It’ll be worth it if _this_ is the result.” Dagon grinned. “I think this is an intriguing development.

  
The sound of carnage faded, replaced by low growls and hisses.

There was a flash of something black, the door swinging as a gust of wind blew past.

Then, a crash, and the sound of tumbling rock and dirt.

  
The dukes and lord burst into the cell.

They stepped over the remains of Disposable and surveyed the scene.

Particularly, the giant hole now in the ceiling.

  
“Cat’s out the bag.” Ligur murmured.

  
“Should we go after him?” asked Hastur.

  
“Nah.” Chuckled Dagon. “Let him have his fun. We did keep him cooped up for a week, after all. He must be _dying_ of boredom.”

  
\--

  
Aziraphale had been in the middle of researching summoning rituals, various human magics for tracking demons, when he felt it.

  
A chill, like Death running his hand up his spine, that echoed through his body and left him feeling ill.

  
He nearly fell over, catching himself with the side of a table, his cocoa rocking precariously.

“Oh…oh my.” He mumbled. “I do wonder what that was about?”

  
He let his eyes fall shut and unfurled his senses to the ethereal plane.

  
It swerved, dove over skyscrapers and past the city limits.

It beelined straight towards a blot, far too big to belong to a _single_ demon, centered around a small town an hour north of London.

  
The blood drained from his face.

“Oh no.” He said, fingers at his waistcoat’s buttons. “Oh no, oh no, oh _no_.”

He considered alerting Heaven but decided that, no, this required immediate action.

And, well, he might not need to tell them.

They might already be aware, which made everything so many times worse.

He searched for an appropriate weapon, seeing only a brolly at the ready.

He might’ve stopped for a sword, perhaps borrowed one from a history museum, but something told him he didn’t have the time to stop.

He brandished his ‘weapon’ and snapped his fingers.

When he opened his eyes, he was in the town: a provincial farming community, population in the triple digits at maximum.

Or more…what was _left_ of the town.

He gaped; it was destroyed, what stood engulfed completely in flame.

People fled, faces marred by ash and burns, piled into cars and onto tractors, carrying what few belongings they could grab.

  
He was the lone person walking _into_ the chaos, unnoticed by the panicking masses.

  
He flicked the brolly and bathed its cheap fabric in holy flame, eyes searching the soon-to-be ruins for the person or being responsible.

More people fled the smoldering town.

Except one.

  
He stood in front of the building that burnt the brightest, judging from the shape of its burning structure, a church.

He turned on his heel, faced Aziraphale with a strange, nervous look.

The man’s eyes glimmered a slight yellow.

He was dressed in a priest’s frock.

  
He stunk of Hell.

  
“Now…I don’t know _who’s_ in this man,” Aziraphale cleared his throat and glared, past the mortal body. “but I advise you to leave before I _force_ you to vacate.”

  
The man cocked his head to the side, grinned a manic grin.

Flames licked the sides of his mouth.

His mouth dropped open, jaw almost unhinged.

“ _Angel._ ”

His eyes rolled to the back of his head.

  
A second figure emerged, slowly solidified, and stood with outstretched wings, letting the priest’s unconscious form tumble to the ground.

  
Aziraphale’s knees almost buckled.

“C-Crowley??”

  
To be frank, he wasn’t sure at first.

This being who stood in front of him only resembled Crowley in the most superficial details: black clothes, red hair, a sway to his walk.

Everything else was _monstrous_.

  
His human skin was almost completely swallowed by obsidian scales, fingernails lengthened into black claws.

The whites of his eyes were gone, filled by serpentine yellow tinged with pale orange.

His red hair clung to his head, matted and stringy.

He opened his mouth and revealed pointed teeth and long, venomous fangs.

What remained of his clothes clung to his body in ripped pieces.

  
“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale uttered in hushed tone, taking a step back. “oh, dear boy, that can’t be you, is it? What’s happened to you?”

Crowley didn’t answer, only stared at him wildly, forked tongue sliding over his teeth.

He looked hungry.

But demons _didn’t_ have to eat.

He charged.

  
Aziraphale had a split second to swing his weapon, aiming too high and grazing the demon’s wings.

  
Singed feathers fluttered to the air as Crowley howled, landed in a quadrupedal stance, squaring Aziraphale up once more.

He about-faced, glared, and growled.

His claws scraped at the ground, scratching thin white lines into asphalt.

  
“Crowley,” Aziraphale stood tall, steeled his gaze, despite how much he was breaking inside. “dear, it’s Aziraphale! You remember me, don’t you? You can fight whatever is making you do this!”

  
Crowley bared his teeth and spat.

He flared and flapped his wings.

  
“Please, Crowley!” Aziraphale gritted his teeth, tears at his eyes. “I-I won’t hesitate to fight! Don’t make me!”

  
Crowley snarled, gaze unfamiliar and feral.

  
Aziraphale’s lips thinned.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered, before furrowing his brow.

He glared back, stood tall.

“V-Very well! So be it!”

He swung the brolly in a show of skill.

  
Crowley lunged.

  
Aziraphale pointed the brolly, extended the canopy while willing the holy fire to simmer.

He caught Crowley on the pole, ribs buckling at his weight, and swung him downward, slamming the demon into the dirt.

  
Crowley swept his claws out, catching Aziraphale’s ankle and sending him to the ground.

  
Aziraphale gasped, blood pouring from his leg, his brolly the only thing between him and his throat getting ripped out.

He swung it, whacking Crowley across the cheek, as he struggled to his feet.

  
Crowley was faster, however; on all fours he lunged and threw Aziraphale onto his back, his claws digging into his shoulders.

Blood pooled around his claws as he stretched his jaw, teeth shining and sharp, and aimed them at Aziraphale’s neck.

Aziraphale grunted and drove his knee into Crowley’s stomach, hands reaching to throw Crowley to the side.

He rolled onto his feet, stood, and reeled the brolly back to strike, only to be thrown aside by Crowley’s wing.

  
Aziraphale panted, drew himself onto his knees, as Crowley stalked him down, fire pluming from the corners of his mouth in thin streams.

His own wings stretched, batted the air, as he dodged a swipe, brolly out like a shield.

He braced, buffeted by the lashes of fire Crowley spewed and lobbed, the scrape and tears of his claws as the canopy’s fabric was torn.

Sweat poured down Aziraphale’s brow, fabric quickly dissipating and the space between him and one enraged demon shrinking fast.

He had to think fast.

  
The fabric was shredded, Crowley’s glowing eyes poking through.

Aziraphale took a sharp breath and let go of his brolly.

  
Crowley staggered, claws caught in the fabric and metal ribbing, but quickly ripping them free and tearing the umbrella to bits.

  
Meanwhile, Aziraphale slipped behind him.

Threw his arms around the demon’s chest, pinning his arms to his sides.

His wings stretched up and flapped, sending them both high into the sky.

Crowley bucked, thrashed and shrieked, but Aziraphale just kept flying.

  
They were high above the destroyed village, away from the thick clouds of black smoke, once more in the cool, clean air.

  
“I’m dreadfully sorry, Crowley,” Aziraphale shouted over the wind and the demon’s screams. “but this stops now!”

He dared to release one arm, him bracing the demon against his chest, as he blindly reached for his jaw, wary of the teeth.

  
Crowley yowled, heaved flames that pricked Aziraphale’s skin, left tiny burns across his cheeks and nose.

  
“SLEEP!” Aziraphale cried.

  
And all at once, like a rubber band breaking, the howling stopped.

Crowley’s struggles stopped.

His body, tense and fraught with fire, went limp.

The hellfire from his lips still poured out, though far slower now.

He slacked forward, almost falling from Aziraphale’s grasp, wings deadweight.

  
Aziraphale gasped in relief.

“I’m so sorry, dear.” He panted. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

He tucked Crowley against him, bracing him with both arms.

He flew a little further before snapping his fingers and teleporting them both.

  
\--

He could’ve just collapsed in exhaustion, laid on the floor, maybe not move until the next day.

  
But that wasn’t an option.

  
When Aziraphale’s form reappeared in the bookshop, he left Crowley’s unconscious form on the floor as he scrambled for his occult references.

Luckily, several were still on his desk from his previous searching.

Frantic fingers fumbled with pages, thumbed through chapters, his senses fixed acutely on the sleeping demon behind him.

“Where…where are the… _ah_ , here.” Aziraphale muttered.

  
He snapped and a piece of chalk appeared in his hand.

  
With exerted caution, he crouched and scrawled a circle around Crowley, filled in the spaces with basic runes and sigils (he hadn’t the time for a complicated binding ritual).

The last rune was drawn with a flourish of the wrist.

  
Just in time, as Crowley’s head snapped up, eyes meeting his.

  
Aziraphale leapt back, tumbled onto his bottom as Crowley careened into the barrier, wall just barely holding him and keeping him trapped in the circle.

He could only watch for a minute, mouth dry and sweat rolling down his face, as Crowley slashed, screeched at the barrier, and breathed waves of hellfire that only created a vortex around himself.

Tears pricked at Aziraphale’s eyes once more, lips thinning as he watched.

“Oh, dear boy, what has happened to you?” He wondered quietly.

  
Crowley didn’t answer; he only struck the barrier again, huffing in frustration and flapping his wings.

  
Aziraphale trembled, stumbled to his feet, and returned to his readings, his eyes fixed on Crowley until he reached his desk.

“I’m going to help you, dear.” He said. “There must be…be some way to bring you back.”

His hand rested on the pages as Crowley shrieked, high-pitched and pained.

“…you are in there, aren’t you?”

Aziraphale’s stomach dropped, face graying, until he shook his head.

“N-No, mustn’t think like that. Crowley’s still _in there_ and, ah, no time to fuss. I need to find a cure. O-Or, at least, _some_ sort of solution.”

The thought gnawed at his mind still as he turned to his studies.

  
The hours passed, Crowley trapped in his circle as Aziraphale ran through book after book, tome after tome, with nothing to show.

His hair had grown increasingly disheveled, face drawn tighter with deep lines of frustration.

After the ninth book, he cursed and threw it aside.

The only reason it wasn’t damaged was it _knew_ it wouldn’t be.

“How…how is there _nothing_? T-There must be something…something I’m missing.”

Aziraphale buried his face in his hands.

“You can’t be _stuck_ like this, Crowley. I-I cannot – I can’t – “

A sob rolled from his throat, dashed with tears, as he peeked between his fingers.

  
Crowley had stopped roaring and slashing, instead occupying himself with prowling his tiny prison, eyes locked on Aziraphale, low growls rumbling in his throat.

“I won’t fail you.” Aziraphale murmured.

He sniffed, wiped his eyes free of tears, and returned to one seemingly promising book.

He paced through the passages, glanced at the spells and rituals, until he found something.

It wasn’t a cure, no.

But it might allow him to get closer to Crowley without risk of permanent death.

  
Of course, it just might mean _discorporation_ instead.

It was a spell to allow temporary immunity to hellfire.

At the cost, however, of binding his angelic powers for an hour.

No miracles, no teleporting, no _flying_.

He could see why he’d never attempted such a spell.

  
But a glance at Crowley, and a glance at the many discarded books, told him he was out of options.

  
He gathered the materials, ground the ingredients with a mortar and pestle and, with a steeling breath, poured the concoction over his body.

He shivered, reeled and gasped in shock, as he felt his powers suddenly cease to be, body heavy and, yes, he did seem to require breathing for now.

He was, by all accounts, mortal.

A terrifying concept, but perhaps the only option he had left.

He set aside the bowl, turned to face Crowley once more.

He adjusted his bowtie and started walking towards the circle.

  
Crowley’s pupils widened; he raised his hackles and growled, claws digging into the floorboards.

  
“Easy, dear.” Aziraphale hushed as his foot crossed the threshold. “I won’t hurt you.”

He stepped fully into the circle.

  
Crowley didn’t hesitate.

He leapt forward, teeth and claws bared, aimed at Aziraphale’s chest and neck.

  
Aziraphale shouted, gasped as his body fell partway through the circle.

A small blessing: his neck was out of reach as Crowley slashed at his waistcoat, buttons flying in all directions.

The first gashes were laid into his stomach, blood pooling and dripping.

  
Aziraphale hissed and grabbed Crowley’s wrists, lifted himself upright despite the burning pain in his gut and the spill of blood.

His head was already spinning, the blood loss starting to reach him, but he pressed onwards.

“Crowley.” He said, voice full of conviction as he stared into the demon’s eyes. “That’s enough.”

  
Crowley snarled, spat and howled, thrashed and tried to clamber away.

  
Aziraphale inhaled, let his eyes close despite the danger.

Let his head tilt and lay against Crowley’s chest, eyes glowing behind their lids.

He searched, deep in the demon’s body, for Crowley.

What he found first…

…oh.

Oh no.

Aziraphale wept at the sight.

His grip on Crowley’s wrists weakened and Crowley pulled free.

  
“Oh…oh Crowley.”

  
Crowley screamed, dug his claws deep into Aziraphale’s back, drawing long lines through flesh as his teeth positioned by his neck.

Aziraphale swallowed his own pain as he eked out:

“…you must be in so much pain, dear.”

He leaned in and, slowly, one of his hands carded through Crowley’s hair.

His other hand braced Crowley’s lower back.

He felt the demon stiffen, body taut with confusion, sharp huffs of breath and hisses filling the air.

“Hellfire. Your soul is _engulfed_ by hellfire.” Aziraphale continued, ignoring the warmth of blood rolling down his back. “It’s burning you from the inside out, isn’t it?”

  
Crowley seized, gritted his teeth, and spat streams of hellfire around them both, forming a funnel whose eye they sat in.

  
Flames licked at Aziraphale’s skin, but with the spell it only sent shivers down his spine, as if the fire were reminding him how, in normal circumstances, he’d be _very_ dead right now.

“I can’t _imagine_ how painful that is.” He continued; fingers curled in Crowley’s locks. “You must be so scared.”

He chuckled.

“Though, knowing you, you’d never say that, would you?” He mused. “So…no, you’d say you aren’t scared. Or in pain. Or…well, you _might_ say you’re angry.”

  
Crowley seethed, uttered guttural noises as he sank his teeth into Aziraphale’s shoulder.

  
Aziraphale winced, bit down the cry of pain that wanted to escape.

“B-But you wouldn’t say _why_ you’re angry. You’re angry because…because you didn’t have a choice in any of this. You’ve been f-forced to be like this. You’d say you didn’t _choose_ to be mon…monstrous. You’d say it’s not your, ah, your style.”

He gave him a squeeze.

“And it isn’t, dear. But I know this isn’t you.”

He held onto Crowley, held on for dear life even as the furious demon left his fangs in his shoulder which, oh dear, he was a _snake_ demon wasn’t he?

  
Might explain the light tinges of wooziness.

  
He pressed on.

“I do wish,” Aziraphale mused with a lowered gaze. “this wasn’t our first hug. I’d much rather hug you when things aren’t so, ah, dire.”

He stopped as he felt, ever so slightly, Crowley’s fangs retract, his bite lightening.

“Dear? Are you there? Are you coming back?”

He received a growl in response.

“T-That’s alright, dear. Take all the time you need.”

He adjusted his arms, which were starting to grow numb (from poison or fatigue, he wasn’t sure) but clung tightly regardless.

“I won’t leave you.”

  
The flames circling around them continued, blazing bright and licking at his skin, claws and teeth still embedded in his flesh.

Aziraphale could feel his vision darken, the shop around him tilting and wavering.

He promised he wouldn’t leave, but it was possible his corporation would make the choice for him.

He simply held on firmer.

  
After what felt like hours, but was likely less, Aziraphale felt the claws in his back shift, pull free.

The teeth and fangs followed suit.

And the demon he clung to moved, shifted in his hold, his scaley hands resting beneath his armpits.

Aziraphale felt himself be lifted, propped upright, his blurring vision meeting yellow eyes.

“O-Oh…” He mumbled. “…hullo, dear. A-Are you, er, feeling better now?”

  
Crowley didn’t answer.

His eyes bore into Aziraphale’s, intensity of a different kind now.

No longer hunger; now, there was only _worry_.

The flames that’d licked the sides of his mouth had simmered down, and soon extinguished with a splash of embers and gray smoke.

Extinguished by…

“Oh, oh Crowley,” Aziraphale lifted a shaking finger to Crowley’s eye. “are you crying?”

He blinked, and his vision cleared just enough to see how Crowley’s face was twisted something wretched, scales receding enough to reveal deep worry lines and creases filling with tears.

His teeth, which slowly shrunk to something of more reasonable size, were gritted together.

The noises he made were still unintelligible, but of a different sort now.

  
Finally, his mouth opened.

“I-I didn’t…I didn’t mean…”

Oh, his voice was shot, absolutely shredded and burned, almost unrecognizable.

  
Aziraphale started to tear up himself.

“Dear,” He said with a cough and a weak smile. “you really shouldn’t speak. Your throat needs to rest.”

  
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Aziraphale.” Crowley croaked. His scales had receded in earnest at this point, whites returning to his eyes as the smoke started to thin.

  
“Goodness, dear, w-what did I – “Aziraphale winced, eyes fluttering. “– never mind that, I suppose.”

  
A stricken look crossed Crowley’s face.

He glanced around Aziraphale, at the circle surrounding them.

He stood, braced Aziraphale against himself, and tried to smudge the circle, only to stub his feet against the barrier.

The shock laced up his leg; for a moment, his eyes were swallowed by yellow, the embers of fresh fire flicking from his mouth.

  
“Crowley…please don’t hurt yourself.” Mumbled Aziraphale as he extended a wing to the mortal plane. His wing swayed back and forth, dusting the circle broken. “There we are.”

  
The hellfire faded from Crowley once more as he crossed the barrier and laid Aziraphale on a couch.

  
“Dear, I am so glad you’re back.” Aziraphale whispered, eyes nearly closed.

  
“Sssshut up, Aziraphale.” Crowley hissed with a grimace. “I-I’ll be…be happier once you’re not _dying_.”

  
“Mm, that is inconvenient isn’t it?”

  
“ _Damnit_ ang – can you snap? W-Why aren’t you healing – “

  
“Little spell of mine. Hellfire immunity but can do bugger all for an hour.” Aziraphale took a deep, labored breath. “Bit of a nasty tradeoff, I say.”

  
Crowley snapped his fingers and watched with disdain as his own venom flowed free and held suspended in the air.

He clenched his fist and the droplets vaporized.

  
“Much better.”

  
Crowley’s eyes flitted down, hands fussing with Aziraphale’s shirt to check for the any wounds he might’ve missed.

  
“Dear, I think you got everything with – “

  
“I almost killed you, angel.”

  
Aziraphale lifted his head, finally meeting Crowley’s eyes again.

The demon looked so broken.

“Oh, oh Crowley, it’s okay – “

  
“Ssssss’not! It’s not, _don’t_ , don’t pretend it is! I-I could’ve killed you.” His hand flew over his mouth. “T-There was a town too. I…I…”

“ _No_.” Aziraphale raised up, pulled the demon into his arms. “I would’ve felt it if anyone died. When I was there, Death was nowhere to be seen. I didn’t feel his presence.”

He smiled lightly.

“Quite…well I suppose you wouldn’t appreciate it, but you were considerate. No one dead in this whole affair.”

  
“There should’ve been. I…I’m a…a monster – “

  
“That isn’t you.” Aziraphale looked him in the eyes. “I know that for a fact.”

  
“You don’t – “Crowley hissed. His expression faltered and returned to something awful. “ – how can we know anymore?”

  
Aziraphale patted the space between him and the couch, ushered Crowley over with a simple look.

  
Crowley hesitated, watched Aziraphale with the last bits of nervous energy.

  
“I’m not afraid, Crowley.”

  
“Maybe…y’should be – “

  
“Shh. Now come over here.”

  
Crowley slunk onto the couch, fit himself in the space between Aziraphale and the cushions, laid his face against his chest to remind himself that _yes_ , Aziraphale was still here.

He hadn’t killed his only friend.

He laid stiff until Aziraphale arm wrapped around him, drew him closer.

  
“I’m not afraid because you are, as much as you hate it, quite a good fellow.”

  
“ _Don’t_ – “

  
“I know. Terribly sorry, there wasn’t another word.” Aziraphale amended. “Perhaps I mean more that, well, I trust you. And today hasn’t changed that.”

  
“Why though?”

  
“Well,” Aziraphale gave him a hug. “perhaps it’s just faith. That you _are_ the Crowley I know.”

  
“Ngh.” Crowley buried his face into Aziraphale’s shirt.

  
“I know. We can talk about this more tomorrow. I think some sleep would do us both some good.”

  
Crowley stayed silent for a moment.

“…sounds nice.”

  
“Sleep well, dear.” Aziraphale whispered. “And, hopefully, we’ll both have pleasant dreams tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whyyyyy do these prompts run away from meeee whyyy is this sooo long darn it


	19. Panic Attacks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 18 - Panic Attacks
> 
> A familiar looking suspect sends Ellie into a panic spiral.
> 
> CW: referenced child death (nothing graphic), depersonalization, derealization

It was a normal house, almost plainly normal.

  
Whitewash boarding, brown shingles. Two stories. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms.

Decent front yard, ample backyard.

Nicely tended flowers.

  
Like any other family’s home.

  
Maybe that’s what made everything so much worse.

  
Ellie tailed behind Hardy, kept the pace as they climbed the stairs, PCs at the ready.

A tip-off from an anonymous source said the father had returned home after, supposedly, spending two weeks on holiday.

The lights had been on when they parked, and quickly doused as they exited their vehicles.

  
Clearly, they’d been noticed.

  
Hardy took the lead, rapped his knuckles against the door.

  
Ellie stood back, flanked by a PC, as two others joined Hardy by the door.

  
The door creaked open.

  
“Christopher Halford?” asked Hardy.

  
“What do you want?”

  
“Detective Alec Hardy, Wessex Police. We had some questions regarding the death of your son, Jake.”

  
Ellie craned to get a look at the suspect.

They’d only had a name, a rough physical description.

A crime.

Murder.

Jake Halford, four years old, was found dead in a ditch close to his school.

Cause of death: strangulation.

The marks around his neck suggested cording or rope was utilized, most likely to reduce evidence.

They had been working the case for weeks, and the evidence they gathered pointed to the father as the primary suspect.

  
Selfish as it was, she’d been trying to forget the sight of Jake: sandy brown hair, curly, matched with pale gray eyes. Freckles. Loved toy cars and wanted to be a football player.

So much like Fred.

 _Too_ much like Fred.

  
“Can’t you leave us alone? Let us grieve?”

  
“We would, but we’ve combed through the evidence, Christopher. We think you might know something about Jake’s death.”

  
“…you think I killed him.”

  
“Possibly.” Hardy nodded. “And it’d be best if you came along quietly.”

  
“If I don’t?”

  
“Then I let the PCs do their job.”

  
There was a pause, a lengthy one.

Ellie watched as, finally, a pair of pale hands extended, open palms, to Hardy.

  
“Alright. I’ll come quietly.”

  
“Right.” Hardy nodded and stood aside, a PC stepping up to cuff Christopher.

  
The PC vanished for a moment into the house, the sounds of cuffs cinching and clicking taut.

Hardy stepped down the stairs, started to approach her, as Christopher was finally led into view.

…

Her heart skidded to a stop.

Her throat constricted.

The saliva in her mouth ran dry.

  
It was uncanny.

Too uncanny.

It couldn’t be a coincidence, could it?

The second those eyes, gray eyes, met hers.

No, it could not be anyone else.

  
Joe.

He looked _too much_ like Joe.

Could it be Joe?

No, no he wouldn’t dare.

He wouldn’t come back to Broadchurch, and how could he have a new family already?

Too soon.

Too soon.

Too _soon_.

  
Her heart picked itself back up but decided to launch into overdrive.

She could _hear it_ in her ears.

Interspersed between her breaths which, damnit she was drowning, _why_ wasn’t her lungs working?

She took so many breaths, but _nothing_ seemed to stick.

She stepped back.

  
Oh, that was a mistake.

The world swerved, the ground beneath her buckled.

Her hands reached out, but she couldn’t feel them.

…were those her arms?

She needed to pull them back, but it was like swimming through gelatin.

There were shapes around her, they said things, but she wasn’t sure if they were words.

She tried to swallow but there was nothing to swallow with.

  
Her feet folded below her.

She was on the ground.

If there was ground.

She wasn’t sure.

For all it felt, she might as well still be falling.

…was she dying?

That was it, wasn’t it?

This was some sort of dying nightmare, where her murderous ex-husband returns to further rub salt in the wound.

Just torment her further.

Of course.

  
“ _…not dying_ – “

  
Who said that?

There was pressure all around her like a vice.

She tried to cry out, but nothing came forward.

And she was so, so cold.

  
“ _Count…two…three…_ ”

  
Count? Count what?

There was nothing here.

Nothing but the vice-like pressure and a certainty that _this_ was what dying felt like.

That she was dying.

  
“ _Miller…feel…?_ ”

  
Feel?

Feel…

Oh.

Something cut through the chaos.

  
Something warm was around…her hands.

Right.

She had those.

There they were.

Another set of hands were around hers.

“ _Feel -?_ ”

  
She felt she answered.

  
“ _do you…me?_ ”

  
She blinked, an arduous task.

Her heartbeat was still drumming in her ears and her breathing –

  
“ _Miller, Miller – stay with me – breathe with –_ “

  
There was a sound.

An inhale, loud and emphasized.

  
It was like the warm hands.

It cut through the everything.

She tried to find her…there we go, her lungs.

She had those too.

Her body demanded more oxygen; it wanted more breaths.

  
“ _slow…hyperventil…follow me…_ ”

  
She forced herself to follow the sound.

  
There was an exhale.

  
She followed that.

  
The darkness started to recede.

Clarity slowly filtered forth.

The world was still blurry.

  
The inhale came back.

So did the exhale.

The hands remained too.

  
She followed the sound, repeatedly, eyes fixed on the hands.

“ _One…two…three…four…five…hold it_.”

  
She did.

  
“ _Good. Now, exhale. Slowly_.”

  
She followed the sound.

  
The hands connected to arms, to a body dressed in wrinkled clothes.

She recognized those clothes.

A face started to filter in too.

She knew him.

  
“Good. Good, alright, that’s…that’s it. What can you see?”

  
She blinked again, slowly, lifted her head that felt so heavy.

She was still on the ground.

So, she _had_ fallen.

  
“I see,” She started, but stopped at the sound of her voice, hoarse and cracking. “I see hands. Your hands?”

  
“Yeah, my hands.” He nodded. “Two more things.”

  
“Uh,” She bit her lip and _that_ sensation spiked through too. “Green grass around us.”

Her pupils darted to meet him.

“You…Hardy.”

  
Hardy nodded, expression stoic but eyes shimmering with relief.

“Yeah, that’s right. Good. Now, two things you feel.”

  
“Your hands.” She thought, heartbeat finally slowing down. “Uh, the grass again. Or more, my pants. Grass is wet.”

  
“It is.” He affirmed. “One thing you hear.”

She stopped, trained her senses back to the world that definitely was around her.

“…I hear PC Bob talking.”

  
The tension in Hardy’s frame retreated as he sat on the grass, hands still around hers.

“Good.” He sighed, eyes falling shut. “Good, good. Christ, Miller, don’t scare me like that.”

  
“What happened?” She asked, eyes furrowing. “Hardy, what happened?”

  
“We were bringing out the suspect and – “Hardy swallowed thickly. “– and, and you _collapsed_. You claimed you were dying. Could barely get you to breathe.”

  
“The suspect.” Ellie’s face started to gray. “Oh…oh, the _suspect_ – “

  
“Oi! No, no! Miller, stay with me.” Hardy squeezed her hands. “Breathe with me, alright? Inhale to five, hold to eight, exhale to five.”

  
Ellie followed, tears pricking at her eyes, taking exaggerated breaths and following the steady rhythm he set.

The world stopped crumbling and re-settled; her throat stopped constricting and, finally, she was back again.

She dipped forward and Hardy’s hands raced to her shoulders instead.

  
“Talk to me, Miller.” He urged, though with a voice soft in tone.

  
She tried to fumble with her thoughts, tried to get her tongue to form the words without her brain diving back into the chaotic mess she’d fallen into.

“Thought he was Joe.”

  
Hardy’s expression fell.

  
Ellie sniffed, furiously wiped the tears from her eyes with hands that remembered how to move.

“And before you say anything, I _know_ it wasn’t him.” She frowned. “Saw the bald head, the eyes. Looked like him, but it’s obviously _not_ him, _stupid_ – “

  
“Stop.” Hardy hushed as he looked Ellie in the eyes. “It’s not stupid.”

  
“I am an officer of the law and I had…had a _panic attack_ – “

  
“He looked like Fred. Jake did.” Hardy admitted. “I saw it too.”

Ellie shuddered, froze in her place.

  
“For a moment, I thought it _was_ Fred. Had to remind myself he was with you. Didn’t attend that school.”  
  


Her eyes slowly trailed back to Hardy.

  
His eyes had fallen shut as he sucked in a steady breath.

“I get it.” He said quietly. “It’s uncanny. All of this.”

  
Ellie wiped the last tear from her face as Hardy stood, held a hand for her.

  
She took it and shakily stumbled to her feet.

  
“We don’t have to hold the questioning today.” Hardy suggested. “We have a little less than a twenty-four-hour hold, but we could question him in the morning.”

  
“Don’t want to make you wait. Stupid panic – “

  
“It’s _not_ stupid, Ellie.”

  
She shot him a look.

  
He didn’t regret it.

“You need to take care of yourself.”

  
“Pot meet kettle.”

  
“ _Please_ , Miller,” His gaze grew pleading. “just please take the day.”

  
Her own gaze softened.

“Something tells me this isn’t just for my sake.”

  
Hardy stuffed his hands in his pocket, started to turn away.

  
“Is it, sir?”

  
He stopped, hesitated.

When he looked at her, his expression was stricken, almost alien on his face.

It made her take a step back.

“For a solid five minutes, Miller, you weren’t here. I couldn’t get you to hear me, to see me. It took you those five minutes to feel my hands.”

Ellie paled.

  
“Selfish of me,” He mumbled. “but I don’t want to experience that again.”

  
He started to walk to the patrol car.

  
She followed behind; legs still wobbly.

“Thank you.”

  
Her looked over again.

  
“And” Her lips thinned. “I’ll take your offer. But interview should be early. Think we’ll need the time to get our information.”

  
He nodded.

“Agreed.” A small, sad twitch of a smile crossed his face. “And until then, you’re resting.”

  
“Oh, heaven forbid, I have to _rest_.” Ellie rolled her eyes.

  
Hardy smirked as they climbed back into her car.


	20. Starmaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 19 - Grief
> 
> Aziraphale never knew how deeply Crowley grieved his fall.
> 
> It takes a meteor shower to make him realize it.
> 
> Heavily inspired by glory-the-bright-haired-ellon: https://glorfy-the-bright-haired-ellon.tumblr.com/post/190314587991/lmao-imagine-the-initial-shock-of-seeing-a-meteor
> 
> CW: alcohol abuse, emetophobia, murder of plants

It sounded so great.

  
He’d overheard two astronomers talking at St. James’ about an upcoming meteor shower, visible up in North England.

They’d mentioned how the meteor shower only occurred every 300 years, and how spectacular of a sight it was.

  
Naturally, Aziraphale immediately set up hotel and restaurant reservations in a small town, right before the findings hit the national news and soon, the whole of North England would be flooded by families on holiday and stargazers.

Just one less room for the hotel to book, but, well, no money lost for them or the restaurants.

And best of all, that meant a lovely weekend getaway for himself and Crowley.

  
And he _knew_ how much Crowley loved space.

One of the many things the demon seemed batty about.

He figured he’d be as, if not more excited, about the meteor shower than Aziraphale and that made his heart flutter.

It was a rare occasion, but Aziraphale did love seeing Crowley excited about something.

His cool façade would remain but, just beneath the surface, he could see the pure, honest adoration ready to boil over.

He’d never let it fully slip free, of course, but even that morsel was enough to warm Aziraphale and flip-flop his heart, darn it so.

  
A quick stop at a high-end winery and Aziraphale was on his way towards Mayfair.

He strolled up the front steps, rode the elevator, and was on his way to his penthouse flat.

With a jaunty step, he stopped and rapped his knuckles at the door.

“Crowley? It’s me.” He chirped. “Bit of a surprise visit, I know, but I brought something you’d appreciate. _And_ I might’ve booked us a pleasant holiday weekend up north which I’m sure you’d _love_ to hear the details of!”

  
Nothing.

  
Aziraphale faltered, rapped his knuckles again at the door, this time a little less pronounced.

He cleared his throat, pink rising to his cheeks upon wondering if, maybe, he’d just missed Crowley, and was talking to an empty flat.

“Crowley? Are you in?” He called.

  
Nothing.

Aziraphale frowned, tapped his fingers against his waistcoat.

“Well, bother.” He tutted. “I do wonder where he is.”

He bit his lip in consideration.

“I suppose I could _see_ where he is. Oh, but that is very intrusive.” He mulled. “Then again…if he were to be in _danger_ , and I felt strongly that he might be in danger, it _might_ be forgiven – “

He let his eyes close and felt around the ethereal plane.

  
It took less than a second to detect Crowley’s demonic signature.

It was close by, which was good.

  
Less good was that it came from _within_ the flat.

  
Meaning Crowley was home but, for some reason, not answering.

  
And that was, at minimum, odd.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale tried again as he reached for the doorknob. “Are you home?”

  
Again, nothing.

  
He bit the inside of his cheek, snapped his fingers to unlock the door.

“I’m so sorry, dear, but I’m letting myself in.”

Oh, how he hoped he wouldn’t stumble upon anything embarrassing.

He’d hoped that all he’d find was a demon who decided to slumber through another month or so.

Inconvenient, yes, but manageable.

He’d resolve it with a pout the next time the demon was awake and the insinuation that alright, _maybe_ this could be amended by a pastry from his favorite bakery.

  
Maybe.

  
As he creaked the door open, he immediately heard something clatter against the door.

He poked his head in and gaped, face draining of blood.

  
The floor, usually immaculate and, almost spookily clean, was streaked with dirt and pieces of terra cotta.

It was eerily reminiscent of blood splatters, how the soil and shredded roots dotted the floor and splashed against the walls, leaves and tendrils left to languish on the floor.

He propped one aloe leaf with two fingers, examined its greenery.

  
Not a spot or bit of discoloration.

“Dear me, you poor things.” Aziraphale whispered.

He followed the trails of soil, away from the entryway and towards the green room.

Where the lone survivors stood, quivering far more violently than normal.

He snapped his fingers, repairing the broken pots, rehoming plants, and cleaning the stains from the floor.

He approached a palm, whose shaking ceased only as his hand grazed its fronds.

“Whatever happened here? Where is Crowley?”

  
The plants, at first, did nothing, but look at one another in an almost nervous fashion.

  
Then finally, an old ivy, whose pot marked it as the oldest, stretched her vines and uncurled them across the floor.

Her leaves dusted Aziraphale’s ankles, gently prodded him to follow it.

They led away from the green room and towards the hallway, towards the statue that Aziraphale never did a doubletake at, nope.

“I’ll be right back, dears. Just need to make sure your owner is alright.” He assured the plants.

  
The plants, disconcertingly, didn’t seem to calm at his words, and only shook further.

  
Aziraphale’s lips thinned and he reluctantly turned away, following the ivy’s tendril.

  
It wove down the hallway, sidewinding around broken glass and puddles of fragrant liquid.

Aziraphale took a whiff; there was a strong stench of warm alcohol.

“Oh…oh dear.” He mumbled.

  
The ivy’s vine poked at a corner, towards a side room where Crowley kept a few other art pieces, as well as the door to the seldom-used kitchen.

It didn’t, however, cross the threshold _into_ the room.

  
“Thank you, dear.” Aziraphale soothed. “I’ll take it from here.”

  
The tendril lifted, cocked its leaves in an almost thankful gesture, before the vine wound back to the green room.

  
Aziraphale took a steadying breath, tugged at his waistcoat and straightened his bowtie.

He took a first step around the corner.

  
His foot immediately hit a bottle, which clattered and rolled across the room.

And ended at a slumped over figure, sitting on a veritable throne of half-drained bottles.

_Crowley_.

  
“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale gasped in horror, eyes scanning the rubbish that seemed to inhabit every corner of the room, all bottles.

There were simply too many to be consumed by one human.

Well, too many for one person to drink and _live_.

He supposed Crowley could’ve sobered between sessions, which only made him wonder _how long_ he’d been imbibing.

He reached for the light switch and flicked it on.

The room flooded with light.

  
Oh.

It was so much worse with the lights on.

Crowley, to put it lightly, looked a _disaster_.

His clothes hung wrinkled and loose on his frame, disheveled and stained, his necktie missing entirely.

His skin had an unhealthy color to it, sweat sticking to every visible inch.

A glob of saliva clung to his lip.

His hair, greasy and unkempt, clung to his forehead, a curtain for his yet to be seen eyes.

His head hung low, lolled as a droning groan slipped from his lips.

  
Aziraphale was stuck somewhere between anger and concern, horror and disapproval.

He’d never seen the demon look this bad, not even when Armageddon was on the horizon.

He stood straight, lips tight and thin, as he crossed the no-man’s land of discarded bottles, ignoring the slightly sticky sensation beneath his shoes.

As he approached Crowley, he noted with grimness how the demon had yet to acknowledge him, not even a tilt of the head or a hello.

He crouched low, one hand on his knee, the other reaching to prop Crowley’s head up.

He tilted Crowley’s chin and, finally, got a look at Crowley’s eyes.

  
“ _Dear me. He looks terribly pallid_.”

“Crowley?” Aziraphale tried as he patted his cheek. “Crowley, please, wake up.”

  
Crowley grumbled, blinked slowly, head cocked at an awkward angle.

A deadweight arm swung around, knocked over a few bottles and spilled their contents across the ground.

He blinked again and smacked his lips.

Finally, he opened his mouth and, tried, to speak.

“…’ngel?”

  
Aziraphale forced a smile.

“Yes, it’s me. Er…how have you been?”

  
A lopsided smile crawled across Crowley’s face.

“Yah joined the…the party.” He gestured to the bottles. “Had to star…t without yah.”

  
“I see that.”

  
Crowley started to reach for a bottle.

  
“Ah, I _think_ it might be prudent to take a break.” Aziraphale took his hand and led it away, back to his thigh. “Catch your breath perhaps.”

  
“M’fine.”

  
“Dear, no, I’m afraid you’re not.” Aziraphale’s tone went firm.

He sighed.

“When, exactly, did you _start_ drinking?”

  
Crowley blinked, eyes off sync with each other, pupils fixed on a random spot.

“Mmph, what day -?”

“I believe, Friday.”

  
“Erg.” Crowley grunted, then snorted, smile twisting.

  
“Dear? What day did you start drinking?” He insisted.

  
“ _Guess_.”

  
Aziraphale frowned, but deigned, nonetheless.

“Well, given the number of bottles in your flat…I’d say Tuesday.”

  
“Soooo close.” Crowley giggled; head lolled onto his shoulder. “ _Sunday_.”

  
“Sunday?! Almost a – Crowley! Crowley, this is no laughing matter!” Aziraphale flared, eyes wide. “Have you sobered up at least once??”

  
“Nah.” Crowley waved off Aziraphale, his hands patting Aziraphale’s cheeks and pressing him away. “Soft angel cheeks. Hm, like marshmallows.”

  
“D-Dear, this is not the time.” Aziraphale sighed as he took Crowley’s hands.

  
“Party pooper.” He pouted.

  
“I’m worried, Crowley. This…well, I know you like to imbibe, but isn’t this a mite excessive?”

  
“Es-cessive? M’a demon! That’s in m’nature! Es-cess! S’what I do best.” He reached for a bottle again.

  
“Darling, no! No, that’s…I won’t let you drink another drop! Not until I find out what in the world’s gotten into you!” Aziraphale snatched up his hand and held it between them.

  
Crowley’s body lagged to respond, swayed like his spine was made of jelly, eyes unfocused and attention dim.

“Ya holding m’hand.”

  
Aziraphale sagged, nodded with a sigh.

“Yes, I am.”

  
Crowley’s sloppy grin returned.

“Youuuuuu like me.” He cooed. “That’s good. Fraid it wasn’…wasn’t…the same fur us both. Wass the word?”

  
“Mutual, dear.” Aziraphale corrected. “You mean mutual.”

  
“Thass it!”

  
“But, Crowley, that’s _why_ I’m worried. I do like you, quite a lot if I were to be honest.” Aziraphale still pinked at the level of honesty, still quite new even years later. “Can you recall, perhaps think of _why_ you’d drink to such excess?”

  
Crowley blinked, licked his lips, eyes searching the air like the thoughts floated in front of him.

“Think…” He noted before he lit up, eyes shooting to meet Aziraphale’s. “Oh yeah! That was it. Didn’ want to think. That’s why I drank.”

  
“Oh…okay. Well, a start at least.” Aziraphale pursed his lips. “Was there something _in particular_ you didn’t want to think about?”

  
“There was.” Confirmed Crowley as he tapped his head, tapping growing in intensity. “There _was_. Wha’ the bloody…bloody heaven…was – “

He stopped.

Froze.

Body stiffer than it had been that entire conversation.

A green coloration crossed his face.

He yanked his hand free from Aziraphale and snatched up a bottle, taking a long swig from it.

“D-Dear! Dear, stop! Stop, goodness, what is the matter?!” Aziraphale yelped as he slapped away the bottle.

  
“I don’ wanna think about it!” Crowley whined before hissing, teeth gritted. “I don’ wanna _bloody_ think about it, angel!”

  
“Think about _what_ , Crowley?? What in the world could be so terrible, dear??”

  
“Y-You… _you know_ , Aziraphale! You know, you know those bloody…falling stars, those – those _things_! The stupid joke, the stupid little reminder of…oh, how lovely! Oh, everyone and their moms won’t _shut the heaven up_ about how beautiful they are! Do they _know_ who made those stars to begin with?!”

Crowley jabbed an accusatory finger at Aziraphale’s nose, eyes filled with manic rage and an intensity Aziraphale hadn’t seen since, well, the near end times.

  
It was, frankly, terrifying.

“The stars.” Aziraphale tried. “The…the meteor shower? _That’s_ what’s gotten you this upset?”

  
“ _I_ was a starmaker, Aziraphale! My whole point, my _existence_ was to make those damn things! I made them by hand, helped hang them in the sky! T-The nebulas, t-t-the stupid swirling space dust, the suns and stars out there! _I_ helped make them!” Crowley growled. “I made them for _Her_! Our mother, they were _all_ for her! She asked for them, I made them. And _what_ did she do with them?”

Another grin crossed his face as he hoisted himself to his feet, upset the bottles that surrounded him and sent Aziraphale reeling back.

“She _throws_ them away. Just _chucks_ them out of the sky, like garbage! And makes it visible for every _bloody_ living thing on Earth to witness! Everyone!”

He threw his arms around, laughed lowly and eyes to the ceiling.

“ _Everyone_ gets to see the things I did my _damn_ hardest to create, to craft, get hurled through space! To fall! To _fall_!”

He snarled at the ceiling.

“Is this funny to you, Mother?!”

  
“Crowley! Crowley, please!” Aziraphale hushed as he grabbed his friend’s arms.

  
Crowley, however, remained standing.

“As if throwing me out wasn’t bad enough! W-What did I do, Mother?! Wha…you could’ve _talked_ to me! W-Was what I did so bad?!”

He stopped.

And suddenly, like his strings had been cut, his legs wobbled, buckled.

Aziraphale was there to catch him, Crowley’s eyes still directed skyward.

“…am _I_ that bad?”

  
Four words, and Aziraphale’s heart shattered.

It seemed, so did Crowley, as the demon went from raging at the heavens to resting on his knees, face knotted in a futile attempt to stem tears in seconds.

Aziraphale held up the demon, hands on his shoulders, following him to the ground.

His heart only broke further as Crowley’s broken eyes drifted to his.

“T-That’s it, isn’t it?” He asked in near whisper. “I-I’m that evil. She threw me out for a reason, I-I thought it was because I just asked questions but… _no_ that can’t be…that’s so little – “

His hand clapped over his mouth as the first sob rolled out.

“But that’s it. I-I-I had to be…just that bad to fall. But why does She have to keep _reminding_ me of it? I-I didn’t mean to…I-I didn’t – “

His eyes screwed shut, the tears running fast and flooding his face, as strained whines and cries broke free from his throat.

  
Aziraphale had no idea of what to do.

He did what only felt natural.

He pulled Crowley close and hugged him.

The demon sagged against him, still stifling the ever-increasing wave of sobs that rocked his body.

Aziraphale, all the while, was left without words.

“… _you know Aziraphale._ ”

Crowley’s comment returned to him.

He did?

He surely couldn’t have; he’d _never_ seen Crowley this distraught, this broken.

…right?

Then, it came back to him, a singular incident from over 5,000 years ago.

  
An inn in Ur.

He’d just finished a night of stargazing with a scholar.

There was a commotion at the inn, something about a strange outsider screaming and starting fights, drunk as can be.

He came to the inn.

Discovered _Crowley_ drunk as can be, babbling about stars and demons.

He’d escorted him to his flat nearby, ensured he’d gotten enough water before he fell asleep.

He had forgotten about that night.

  
Hadn’t considered _what_ could’ve upset Crowley and made him devolve to such a state.

  
Now he knew why.

  
“Crowley,” He started slowly, softly, hands running up and down his back. “I’m so sorry, dear. I had no idea you were hurting this badly.”

  
“I-I didn’t mean to fall…”

  
“I know, dear. I know.” Aziraphale nodded as Crowley rested his face against his shoulder. “I know.”

  
He held him there for some time, rocking the weeping demon back and forth.

He might’ve cried himself, hearing his friend so distraught, so helpless to answer the questions he had.

He really thought the shooting stars were nothing more than a mocking reminder of his fall.

How many meteor showers had occurred over human history?

How often did he feel like this?

How many times has he gone through this _alone_?

“M’sorry…I’m a _mess_ …” Crowley hiccupped between sobs. “I shouldn’t have drunk so much. I-I’m making you take _care_ of me – “

  
“No, no dear, it’s perfectly alright.”

  
“I j-just wanted it to stop.” He sniffled against his coat. “H-Heard about that…that _damn_ meteor shower and it just…I can’t stop _thinking_ – “

  
“I don’t blame you.”

  
Crowley scrunched against Aziraphale.

“…didn’t mean to make Mother angry.” He mumbled. “I-I never…I just wanted to know like She does.”

His hand clenched around a fistful of waistcoat.

“She thinks I hate Her. T-That’s it, isn’t it? N-Now she hates me.”

  
“I don’t think She hates you, Crowley.” Assured Aziraphale.

  
“Then why -!”

  
“Why would she let us survive the executions?” questioned Aziraphale. “Why would she let us live still? She could’ve struck us both down, yet we’re still here.”

His hand lifted to card through Crowley’s hair.

“Could you honestly tell me she’d allow that if she hated you?”

  
Crowley sniffed, furrowed his brow at Aziraphale.

  
Aziraphale could see it, in his eyes, he thought he was right.

But to _say_ it.

That was another burden entirely.

  
Crowley choked on a sob, burrowed his face back into Aziraphale’s waistcoat.

  
“Crowley – “

  
“Why the shooting stars then, Aziraphale?” He whispered. “Why would She make something like that, then, if she wasn’t angry at me? She has to know I…it bothers me.”

  
“I don’t…I don’t know.” Aziraphale admitted. “Perhaps she didn’t intend to upset you with it. Maybe She…”

He paused. What he was about to suggest…

No longer part of Heaven’s army, yes, but it was still difficult to insinuate something like that about Her.

He was, after all, always loyal to Her.

“…maybe She didn’t think you’d hate it.”

He felt Crowley stiffen, but his head didn’t lift.

He could feel how unconvinced he was.

How hurt.

Because of _course_ he’d still be hurt.

Aziraphale knew well that 5,000 years of pain didn’t vanish in an instant.

  
“Oh, Crowley.”

He lifted Crowley upright once more, took in his miserable and exhausted expression, how limply his shoulders hung.

He tilted his chin up once more.

Wiped some of the tears from his face.

  
“M’just tired of being sad, Aziraphale.” He muttered. “Tired of being angry at it. It’s been 6,000 years; I should be _over_ this.”

His eyes drifted away.

“But I think about it, an’ it’s like it’s happening all over again. Just keep asking the same questions. I don’t know why. I never get an answer…”

His eyes fluttered shut.

“Should just accept she wants nothing to do with me.”

  
“It’s not you.” Aziraphale blurted before glancing upwards with a nervous look.

Eventually he sighed, resigned to his admittance.

“It’s not just you.” He said. “I haven’t heard from her since Eden.”

  
“You’re an angel though.”

  
“She’s been quiet for some time now.” Aziraphale grimaced. “Sometimes I wonder about it myself.”

  
“And you keep waiting?” Crowley furrowed his eyes, venom returning to his voice. “Why do you… _we_ keep waiting then?”

  
Aziraphale gave him a sad look.

“I believe that’s called _faith_ , dearest. Something, I believe, you have in spades, if you’ve really been asking Her questions for 6,000 years, waiting still for an answer.”

  
“I don’t – “

  
“I feel you do. You still love Her, don’t you Crowley?”

  
Crowley scoffed, turned his glistening gaze away.

“Don’t we all?”

  
“Of course.” Aziraphale cupped his cheek. “But I don’t believe every demon could say the same.”

His thumb grazed his cheekbone.

“I feel that makes you quite special. And I believe she knows that.”

  
Crowley frowned, face scrunched, tightening against welling tears.

He sniffed, fell forward back into Aziraphale’s waiting arms.

And cried.

Just cried.

Emptied every last tear and sob, bawl and whimper against Aziraphale’s chest.

  
Like a cork popped off 6,000 years of grief and hurt.

And Aziraphale simply sat there, holding his demon, his rock through everything.

Simply sat there and rubbed his back, ran his fingers through his hair, whispered soft words into his ear.

Held him as he shivered, talked him through the hiccupping gasps and bursts of anger that still littered his broken heart.

“That’s it, dear. Let it out.” He assured.

  
He lost count of how long it was.

All he knew was, eventually, Crowley’s tears died out, his sniffling quieting down to occasionally, body sagging against his.

He stood once more, picking up Crowley to cradle in his arms, tucking him close to his chest.

For a moment, he simply stood there, holding him, hugging him, feeling the worn-out demon rest for the time being.

He didn’t look as bad as he did earlier, but the signs of alcohol consumption still littered his form through discoloration and sluggish body movement.

“Are you ready to sober up, dear?”

Crowley cocked a reddened eye open.

He frowned, face straining, until he slacked limp again.

“D-Don’ think so…” He mumbled. “Too tired.”

He cocked a remorseful look at the bottles.

“Too much booze.”

  
“Well, that won’t do.” Aziraphale noted. “Perhaps…would you allow me to give it a go? I don’t think it’d be wise to sober you _completely_ , but I can’t leave you this…inebriated. Could make sleep a problem _and_ you’d have a dreadful hangover.”

  
Crowley grunted something unintelligible and nodded.

  
“Very well.” Aziraphale snapped.

  
He watched Crowley seize, eyes shot wide, as some of the alcohol drained instantly from his system.

A few bottles, unfortunately including the broken ones, filled full of their contents once more, creating new puddles on the floor.

“Well, drat. That’ll be another cleaning miracle.” Aziraphale tutted as he looked back at Crowley.

Not assuring, he didn’t look relieved by the reduced alcohol in his bloodstream.

  
In fact, he was looking a little green.

“Dear, are you okay?”

  
“Toilet.” He muttered, looking uncomfortable. “Need one now.”

  
“Oh! Oh dear.”

  
He brought Crowley to the loo in time and, luckily, avoided having to clean up whatever his body managed to expel given that he never ate.

  
“I believe a shower might be in order?” He suggested. “Or a bath?”

  
“Hmf.” Crowley grunted, chin still laying on the seat.

  
“A bath it is.”

  
Crowley undressed and was placed into a tub filled with warm water and bubbles.

A rubber duck floated lazily by as Aziraphale soaked his hair and scrubbed pricy shampoo through his locks.

“…m’pathetic. You shouldn’ be caring for me.”

  
“Nonsense, dear boy. I’d rather be taking care of you than letting…well, I’d rather you not go through this alone.”

  
“S’embarrassing.”

  
“I don’t rather agree with that. Now, eyes closed, lest you want soap in them.”

  
Crowley muttered something but, nevertheless, closed his eyes.

  
Dressed in comfy silk pajamas, Crowley was then laid in his bed, with Aziraphale summoning a chair to sit in.

Aziraphale snapped his fingers and a glass of cool water appeared on the end table, as well as a trash bin on the floor beneath Crowley’s pillow.

“Just in case.” Aziraphale smirked.

  
Crowley grumbled, curled against his pillow, laid on his side facing Aziraphale.

“…thank you.”

  
Aziraphale looked over, eyebrow cocked.

  
“For taking care of me.” He mumbled. “This…s’nice.”

  
Aziraphale smiled.

“Of course, dear.” He said. “Now try and get some rest. I’ll have some soup ready for you when you’re awake. Have you dealt with a hangover before?”

  
“Nope.” Crowley groaned. “This is gonna _suck_.”

  
“It will.” Chuckled Aziraphale. “But I’m here to help.”

  
“Hmm.” Crowley’s eyes fluttered shut.

  
Aziraphale watched with a fond expression, his hand reaching out to card through Crowley’s hair.

He heard Crowley hum, lay still as his chest rose and fell.

The last of the tension falling from his face.

  
“There we go. Sleep well dear. And dream of whatever you like – “

  
There was a knock at the door.

Aziraphale lifted his head, eyebrows furrowed.

He glanced at Crowley, uttered an apology, and left for just a moment.

He reached the door and opened it to no one.

“Hello? Anyone there?” He called.

  
No one.

  
He glanced around, then down.

  
There was no one, but there was a basket.

A simple wicker one, its contents covered in a clean, white cloth.

As well as a note.

  
He picked up the basket, parted the cloth.

Inside was a simple bottle, made of blown, blue glass, filled with an unknown liquid.

He plucked the note and opened it.

  
The words were written in looping, golden letters.

  
“ _AZIRAPHALE,_

_  
THIS ELIXIR IS OF MY MAKING. IT WILL CLEAR UP ANY HANGOVER SYMPTOM. PLEASE MAKE SURE CROWLEY DRINKS THIS AND DOESN’T IMBIBE LIKE THAT AGAIN._

_LET HIM KNOW I NEVER STOPPED LOVING HIM AND WILL LOVE MY STARMAKER ALWAYS._

_I HEAR YOU AND LOVE YOU BOTH DEARLY._ ”

  
There was no signature.

There didn’t need to be.

  
Aziraphale stood for a moment, flummoxed, floored by what he held in his hands.

He searched around one more time, hoping maybe She was nearby.

  
But he was alone.

  
He tucked the note back in the basket and closed the door, ready to return to his vigil.


	21. Grounding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 20 - Comfort (Alt. Prompt 3)
> 
> Set after Chapter 13, "Confronted". Hardy has been discharged from hospital and is back at home. His first night, however, is anything but restful.
> 
> CW: referenced past torture, survivor's guilt, detectives being soppy

_He couldn’t breathe._

_  
Couldn’t move._

_  
Couldn’t_ do _anything._

_  
The ropes held him down, tore into his skin, made him bleed._

_  
The towel over his face bled water into every pore, trickled down his nose and mouth, stung and burned on their way down, robbed him of any oxygen that slipped past._

_  
Every breath only drew in more water._

_  
And the more water there was, the harder it was to breathe._

_  
Yet, the less he breathed, the more oxygen his body_ demanded.

  
_Thus, he’d try to breathe._

_  
Repeat until done._

_  
Until_ done _._

_  
Which drew closer every second._

_His eyes flitted to the side, towards Charles, who loomed with the watering can._

_His gaze fixed on Charles’._

_  
He found nothing._

_No empathy, no remorse, no regret._

_Just cold, studious focus._

_Intrigue._

_Even curiosity._

_  
More water was poured._

_  
The towel caved, started to tease at collapsing into his throat, to block his windpipe and choke him in earnest._

_Possibly, finally, end this torment for him._

_…_

_No._

_He couldn’t give up._

_He had Daisy at home._

_He had to_ get back home _._

_He had to get home._

_He had to –_

_  
More water._

_  
Charles grabbed his hair and yanked him to the side._

_There was no light in his eyes._

_He pulled his head up._

_Shoved it down._

_…there was more water._

_  
_ Everywhere.

  
_He was sinking, the water slowly spreading over his face, lapping at his skin._

_  
He shuddered, protested, tried to scream but something was blocking his mouth._

_Filled his mouth._

_A towel?_

_The towel._

_He flailed, struggled, but his limbs remained deadlocked, stuck at his sides, useless._

_  
Charles continued to stare him down as the water eclipsed him._

_  
His nose instantly filled, the water stale and dark._

_The light filtered in above him, shimmering through currents and waves._

_It was so cold._

_The waters_ had _been that cold._

_And it was everywhere now._

_  
And he was sinking._

_  
And there wasn’t a thing he could do._

_  
His body drifted deeper, lungs burning and throat raw, the darkness of the river’s depths consuming him._

_  
_ \--

  
He jolted upright, sweat coating his body.

  
Immediately, his hands reached for his throat, his mouth, to pull the towel away, to stop his drowning.

  
His hands, however, found nothing.

  
He was still drowning.

  
He swallowed, took in deep breaths, drank the air until his lungs protested.

In and out.

In and out.

The room started to slow, cease to spin.

His vision cleared and, eventually, each breath didn’t burn.

And finally, his hands fell to the sheets.

  
…sheets.

  
His hand opened flat, palm down, feeling at the texture of the blankets around him.

There were blankets.

There weren’t blankets before.

He reached towards his wrist, where he’d felt the rubbing of ropes earlier.

His wrists were covered, but not by rough rope.

Instead, they were bandaged, gauze pads sticking to his skin.

He pulled his legs free of the blankets and they, too, had bandages around his ankles.

  
He sat there for a moment, staring in the darkness at his limbs, breathing heavily still as he became keenly aware of the sweat on his body.

He looked around the room.

Noticed the old electric clock, the one with the awful buzzer that woke him each morning.

The dresser, secondhand, with one handle missing.

A few generic, stock pictures on the wall of landscapes.

One photograph of himself and Daisy.

  
“ _My room_.” He thought. “ _M’in my room._ ”

  
Not drowning.

Not the river.

Not Charles’ basement.

  
…he got out.

He was free.

He’d been rescued.

  
That’s right.

  
…

  
He wished his body would get the bloody message.

  
His heart was still racing, running dangerously fast and he wondered if his pacemaker would go off.

He ran a hand down his face, hand still shaking and trembling something awful.

He squeezed his eyes shut, tried to see if sleep would take over once more.

It was, at least he guessed, pretty late.

  
His eyes closed.

  
_River, water, towel, Charles, drowning, can’t breathe, help, help, HELP_

_  
_ His eyes shot open.

His throat constricted; mouth cotton dry.

He tried to swallow but couldn’t.

His t-shirt stuck to his chest.

“ _Water._ ” He thought. “ _Glass of water might help_.”

  
His legs shook like a newborn deer’s as his feet met the carpet.

He pulled himself up, waited a second to ensure his legs wouldn’t buckle, before proceeding out the room and towards the kitchen.

He ambled, body numb and exhausted, feet not entirely feeling the floor, body overheating yet also freezing.

He fished a glass from the drying rack; a plastic one.

He flipped the tap and filled the cup.

  
“You’re up?”

  
He flinched, cup clattering in the sink.

His hands gripped the sink’s edge as his heart ran into overdrive once more.

  
“Jesus, Hardy, you okay? Didn’t mean to startle you.”

  
He looked over, past his soaked bangs, and finally took in the other person.

  
Ellie had stood from her spot, obscured by the couch, her book tumbling from her hand.

  
“Miller,” He bit out, voice decidedly hoarse and fragile.

He remembered the tap and flicked it off.

“y-you’re here.”

  
Ellie furrowed her brow.

“I am. You don’t remember?”

Her lips pursed.

“Here to make sure you’re alright. First night back and all. Didn’t want Daisy to be alone.”

She eyed behind him, towards the sink.

“You wanted a glass of water?”

  
“I got it fine.”

  
“Don’t think so. You dropped that one.”

  
“Only because _you_ startled me.”

  
“Sit down.” Ellie tutted as she re-filled the cup.

  
Hardy sighed and grumbled as he shuffled over to the couch, taking his spot next to where her book had fallen.

  
Ellie handed the cup to him as she sat back down, leaned against the cushions.

  
“Just needed the water. Was going back to bed.” Hardy mumbled into the cup.

  
“Well, I don’t want you spilling water in your room.”

  
“Shut up, Miller.”

Ellie smirked.

“So, just wanted water?”

  
“Yeah.”

  
“That’s it? Just…up? And wanted water?”

  
“Something wrong with that?”

  
“No…just see you weren’t lying.”

  
Hardy raised an eyebrow.

  
“That you never sleep. With the first case, you said that.”

  
“You remember that?”

  
“Well…admit it made me laugh a little. You do brood.”

  
“I don’t brood.”

  
“Oh, Mr. Grumpy and Thin, I don’t sleep. Not while crime is afoot.” Ellie gestured out with a grin. “Crime never sleeps and neither do I!”

  
“Right, you having your fun?” He said with a look.

  
“Might be.”

  
“Oh, well cheers then.” Hardy mumbled as he drank his water. “Glad I’m entertaining.”

  
They sat there for a time, saying nothing, taking in the late evening as the clock stretched towards one.

  
Ellie yawned and lounged against the couch.

  
“Why are you still up?” asked Hardy as he set down his cup.

  
“I said I’d stay up. So, Daisy could sleep.”

  
“You should sleep.”

  
“And what if something happens with you? Better I stay up.”

  
“I handled myself fine before the pacemaker. No different here.”

  
“Christ, stop being a bloody martyr.” Ellie rolled her eyes and lolled her head against the cushions.

  
“I’m not being a martyr.”

  
“Oh yeah, I believe that. As much as I believe you’re not being a huge _knob_.”

  
“Wha…what did I do? I was just saying that I can handle myself and _you_ should get some sleep rather than stay up and be exhausted tomorrow.” He gestured like he was forming a battle strategy.

“Oh, bloody hell, would you stop it with the ‘oh it’s just logical’ horse shit already??” Ellie groaned. “ _You_ have been through hell and I won’t have you pretending that nothing happened!”

  
“I said it already. I’m _fine_.”

  
“You’re a terrible liar, sir.” Ellie frowned, glared pointedly. “I saw how you looked when you got up.”

  
Hardy didn’t mean to turn white, didn’t mean for his eyes to betray how right Ellie was because he, partly, knew she was pulling detective tricks on him.

And damnit, _he_ was a detective too.

He knew what she was doing.

But he fell for it anyways.

His throat thickened, lines on his face tightening as he forced himself to keep holding Ellie’s gaze, to not look away because _that_ would also be an admission.

  
It was a moot point.

  
“I know what someone looks like after a nightmare.” Her voice softened. “It’s hard to hide.”

  
“M’not a child, Miller.”

  
“You’re not doing yourself any favors then.” She frowned. “Acting like that, I mean.”

  
“Don’t like…talking about it.”

  
“Well, sorry, but that’s going to change.”

Ellie’s arms fell from crossed to the cushions, one laid in the gap between them.

“Because talking is the only way we’re going to get through this.”

  
“’We’?”

  
“Yes, we. Because, again, you are _not_ doing this alone.”

  
Hardy stiffened, then fell back against the couch and stared at Ellie, gaze weary and resigned.

  
“You’re not.”

  
“Fine.” Hardy grunted. “Alright.”

  
Ellie frowned, crooked her mouth, and glanced about.

“Right.” She noted. “…do you want to talk about it? The nightmare?”

  
Hardy blinked slowly, lazily.

“Not much to talk about.”

  
“Anything’s a start.” Ellie clapped her hands down and stood. “Maybe tea will help. Herbal, no caffeine. Want some?”

  
Hardy nodded, uttered a short ‘ta’, and remained on the couch as she sauntered to the kitchen.

His gaze drifted to the adjacent wall, took in the general silence of the house aside from Ellie’s rustling.

…

It was very quiet.

Very.

  
…

  
_Remember how quiet it was? In the basement? You might hear the telly, maybe, when Charles wasn’t there._

  
He squeezed his eyes, frowned and shook his head.

“ _I’m not thinking about that._ ”

  
_It was dead quiet otherwise. Do you think he soundproofed the place? Maybe he’d considered taking the other girls down there. Lucky you; you were the_ first _._

 _  
_ “ _I said I’m_ not _thinking about it._ ”

  
_…you were lucky to have been found. If he did soundproof the basement. Otherwise, how long might it have been? He could’ve had free rein for days. He would’ve. Just imagine being trapped like that, waterboarded, for_ days _._

_It was only an afternoon though._

_You got lucky._

_  
_ “ _Only a…I said, I_ said _, I’m not_ thinking _about this. Now shut up._ ”

  
_You got out alive. Those girls weren’t so fortunate, were they? No. They were_ killed _. They only lucked out that Charles didn’t figure out his taste for torture yet._

_Or…maybe he had._

_He could’ve._

_You don’t know._

_Tortured to death._

_Meanwhile you just got, what, a day? Two, tops?_

_A week in the hospital._

_At the end, alive._

_That’s it._

_…what are you so broken over?_

_You got it the easiest._

_  
_ “ _STOP._ ” He gritted, the word starting to spill to the realm of audibility.

  
_And you still_ broke _. After two days. That’s all it took for you to break?_

_Beg for mercy?_

_Pathetic._

_In the end, barely a scratch on you._

_Yet you cried like you’re about to die._

_Absolutely pathetic._

_  
Two days._

_And water._

_What detective is afraid of water?_

_  
_ “STOP.” He hissed, fingers clawed into his scalp, eyes squeezed so tightly shut it hurt, sent waves of pain through his brain.

Maybe if he tried hard enough, he could pull the thoughts from his head.

Maybe.

All he could do is try as the air fizzled, heat intensified, ears rung as –

  
…

  
A hand.

There was a hand on his shoulder.

  
“Hardy?”

  
He shook.

A shuddered gasp escaped him.

  
The hand squeezed, enough to slice through the tormenting thoughts.

“Can you look at me?”

  
Could he?

His eyes felt fused shut.

And…he wouldn’t admit it.

But he was afraid of what he’d see.

  
The hand gave another affirmative squeeze.

“It’s okay. Take your time.”

  
He gulped, let his eyes creak open.

  
There she was.

Miller.

She held a cup of tea.

Her eyes were unspeakably worried but tinted with encouragement.

“Hey.”

  
His mouth was so dry.

Still, he tried to respond.

“H-Hey.”

  
“Got your tea.” She held out the mug.

  
She held onto the handle long after Hardy’s hands cupped around it, probably due to the visible tremor along his entire body.

She helped guide it over, ensured it didn’t shake and splash hot tea onto his shirt.

“Lip’s bleeding.” She said as she yanked a tissue.

She hesitated for a moment, tissue wavering between them, before she jerked and dabbed at the bubble of blood, like someone had yanked her hand through the rest of the action.

“Bit soppy. Sorry, bet you don’t like it.”

  
“I-It’s fine.” He choked out.

  
That made Ellie pause for a moment, brows furrowing.

She took her cup of tea and sat beside him.

He heard her fingers drum against the cup for a time as he sipped his tea, uncaring of how it burnt his tongue.

It was preferable to feeling _everything else_.

  
After some time, Ellie cleared her throat, set down the last of her tea.

“I get it if you aren’t ready to talk tonight. Guess with everything that’s happened, might be best to take this slow.” She said. “But we should talk soon, for your sake.”

She looked over, lip between her teeth as she spoke again.

“For now, though, if you don’t want to talk about it, what _can_ I do? What do you need right now?”

Hardy took in a breath, contemplated his options as his hands continued to shake.

He needed to say something.

The longer he kept it inside, the more it burned.

The more the secrecy of it all seethed.

But to say it was just as impossible.

He was trapped.

  
“Hardy?”

  
Hardy stopped.

His eyes flitted to the cup; whose contents continued to quiver.

“Can you – “

He licked his lips, swallowed dryly.

“– just stay. For tonight. With me.”

  
Ellie chewed on the words, met his eyes again.

“Just that?”

  
He nodded slowly.

“Yeah.”

  
Her eyes drifted down, and she stood.

She returned a moment later with a blanket which she draped around his shoulders.

“You looked cold.”

She sat back down.

  
The warmth settled around him, swaddled him.

Grounded him.

He sipped his tea.

Mumbled his thanks.

Focused on the table in front of him and nothing more.

  
“You…no, forget it. I didn’t say anything.”

  
“Hmm?” He questioned.

  
“No, it was stupid. Ignore me.”

  
“I’m not going to do that, Miller.”

  
“Christ, the one time I hope you’ll – “

  
“It’s not stupid, Miller. Just say it.”

  
She looked back over, her crossed arms loosening, as she sighed in resignation.

“I was going to offer a hug but, look, I know. Stupid. I don’t think you even like hugs.”

  
“I like hugs.”

  
She frowned; gaze snapped to him.

“You do?”

  
“That shocking?”

  
“Well…yeah. You’re not exactly Mr. Cuddly.”

  
“Thanks, Miller.”

  
“I mean…so you, uh, want one then?”

  
“Only if you’re comfortable with it.”

  
“I mean, _I_ offered one – “

  
“Doesn’t mean you’re comfortable with it.”

  
“I – oh, for god’s – come here.”

  
She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him over.

It was awkward, stiff, hands questioning what was okay and what was wanted, whether this was all a good idea or still utter insanity.

Hardy didn’t care.

  
It was a hug, and it was lovely.

  
He set aside his cup and his arms, just as tentatively, wrapped around her back.

  
She stiffened a moment but eventually eased against his hands.

“This okay?”

  
“Yeah.” He affirmed quickly. His chin rested on her shoulder. “Yeah.”

  
“Good.” Sighed Ellie, her own chin resting on his shoulder. “Good.”

  
“This okay with you?”

  
“It’s…weird.”

  
“Oh. Oh, shit, I’m so – “He started to pull away.

  
“No, no. Just, well, we aren’t exactly soppy with each other.”

  
“Not at all.”

  
“Just…different, I guess.” Ellie’s hands occupied themselves with his blanket. “Been a while for me.”

  
“Same.”

  
Ellie’s cautious hands started running up and down his back, slow pace with senses reaching for any moment of apprehension.

  
Hardy surprised himself by sinking into the contact, feeling the careful, comforting gesture that, to his surprise, was like water for a man in the desert.

He needed it, leaned into it.

The tension in his body, never ending since before his capture, unraveled.

And so, did he, unravel.

  
Tears slid down his face, off his nose, onto his lip.

He was shaking again, this time with the silent sobs in his throat.

He tried to say something, to apologize, but he didn’t trust his voice.

Didn’t trust it not to break.

  
“It’s fine.” Could Ellie hear his thoughts? “Needs to go in the wash tomorrow anyways.”

She didn’t move to part, to break the hug.

  
Neither did he.

He held there, stayed and didn’t react as another set of arms joined the hug, turned it into a group hug.

  
“Daisy?” He heard Ellie say. “You’re up?”

  
“Heard you guys talking.” Daisy admitted as she hugged Hardy from the side.

She glanced up, met Hardy’s watering eyes.

“Dad…are you -?”

  
“Might be, darling.” He finally spoke, voice appropriately breaking.

  
“It’s alright, Hardy.” Said Ellie with a nod. “It’s okay.”

  
“Yeah, Dad.” Daisy confirmed too with a weak smirk. “Heard crying’s good for you. From an article. Can’t be wrong if it’s scientific, right?”

She buried her face against his arm and gave him a firm squeeze.

  
There was so much support, so much love and kindness after so long dealing with so much alone.

It was almost too much to take, and Hardy felt an ugly noise, a choked sob well in his throat simply from the thought of it all.

One arm left Ellie to hug his daughter back.

At the barest sound, he felt them hug him tighter, reassurance that everything was okay.

  
It was okay.

  
He would be okay someday.

  
If not now, eventually.

  
At that, he uttered a shuddered sigh, and some of the weight of the last week lifted, even if only a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im falling soooooooo behind
> 
> this was the toughest to write yet bc comfort isnt my strength but hey it's a conclusion of a not intended 3 part short thing so yeah cool


	22. Hypothermia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 21 - Hypothermia
> 
> Aziraphale sets out to rescue the trapped Donner Party in 1847 and ends up saving a demon too.
> 
> CW: referenced cannibalism, referenced murder

_March 1847_.

  
He hated to leave him.

  
He hated to leave him because he knew, _knew_ , how much it must’ve terrified him.

  
He hated to leave him because he’d promised, what, a day ago?

He’d promised a day ago that, this time, he wouldn’t leave.

  
But there were others in trouble, others needing help, and he couldn’t give Crowley all his attention, as much as he wanted to.

  
“There we go. Some nice, warm stew. Sip this down, it’ll do you good.” Aziraphale coaxed to a child, no older than seven, with a spoon.

  
The boy, more skeleton than human, stared at Aziraphale with hollow eyes, hair thin and wispy, cheeks sunken.

His pupils fell to the spoon and he licked his lips greedily.

The spoon met his lips and he gulped down the spoonful, only grimacing minutely from the heat.

  
“That’s it. Very good.” Nodded Aziraphale.

  
“S-So hungry, sir. Can’t I have more?” Mumbled the boy.

  
Aziraphale winced for a moment before directing him a small smile.

“Best to take it slow. You haven’t eaten for quite some time. Your body needs to adjust to eating again.”

  
“I _have_ eaten. Not long ago.”

  
“Erm, eating real food, shall we say. Heartier food. Something…well, normal.” Aziraphale swept another spoonful. “Here we go. Open wide.”

  
The boy finished the bowl in short fashion, allowing Aziraphale to return to his main charge, the one mostly on his mind.

Crowley had been ostracized, left to the back of the wagon, far too close to the canvas’ flaps and the wind for Aziraphale’s liking.

But it was better than nothing and Aziraphale would have to make do.

“I’m back.” Aziraphale passed a supply crate and paused, blanched at the sight. “Oh…oh dear, no. No, you need to keep the blankets around you.”

  
“ _Hot_.” Mumbled Crowley as he threw another layer of blankets away, almost out the wagon. “Can’t…b-boiling – “

  
“N-No, dear boy, you can’t be. You’re shivering still, don’t you feel that?” Aziraphale’s hands worked to regather the blankets, re-swaddle the demon.

  
Crowley muttered something unintelligible, his attempts to fight off the blankets ending as quickly as they started, as he allowed himself to be cocooned.

  
Crowley was a miserable patient most times, but this lack of fight, immediate surrender, only worried Aziraphale.

He’d never allow himself to be maneuvered like this, kept wrapped like a mummy in pounds of blankets and spoon-fed broth.

  
Then again, he usually oozed some form of controlled energy, and wouldn’t allow himself to become so lethargic unless it followed copious bottles of wine.

And that was a different sort of lethargic, more sleepy than concerning.

  
They’d long passed the border to concerning.

  
Aziraphale pulled Crowley back into his lap, cradled him against his chest as he braced them both against the blistering wind.

He watched as Crowley’s eyes drifted shut once more, teeth chattering and face tight from something he couldn’t see.

The poor thing was muttering, mumbling in his sleep, restless as ever and so, so frightfully _cold_ , even after Aziraphale’s care.

There wasn’t much Aziraphale could do, not on his own and not without attracting the attention of his higher ups, who’d most definitely oppose him caring for a demon.

  
His hands were tied; he was forced to treat his friend the _human_ method which, admittedly, wasn’t even close to adequate, even after advancement from leeches to proper hospitals.

  
“Oh, dear boy.” Aziraphale tucked Crowley closer to his chest, braced him against another gale. “I’m so sorry this has happened to you.”

His own eyes closed as he tried to hold himself firm against the ever-freezing winds, his own corporation growing weary from the constant vigil, the constant nursing of so many starved, sickly people, mostly children.

He didn’t mean it, of course.

He didn’t even like sleeping.

  
But one way or another, he did, for the first time in thousands of years, drift to a shallow sleep.

  
\--

  
_Earlier that week_.

  
It started with a call for help.

  
A request for brave, able-bodied men, to assist in a rescue operation in the Sierra Nevada.

  
The details: a wagon train had been trapped at Truckee Lake over the bitter winter, the number of those trapped in the dozens.

Provisions were low, likely dwindled to scraps at this point, with those at the camps unable to hunt or forage.

They were to meet with the survivors, bring supplies and transport as many of them to San Jose as possible.

  
They were also told to ready themselves, for the accounts of the previously rescued had been grim.

“A few passed on the way down the mountains.” Recounted the expedition leader, a man named Reed. “And at least two died after reaching California. Prepare yourselves, men, for this is a mission of highest importance, but what you’ll witness will be unlike anything documented outside of war and conquest.”

  
Aziraphale shivered, no stranger to the horrors that came from mundanity, but still pondered the extent of what the stranded pioneers had experienced over that long winter.

  
He saddled up with several wagons and joined the trek to Truckee Lake, still swamped with snow, temperatures still bitterly frigid.

The lakeside was eerily silent, not even the tracks of animals visible, all in all an untouched landscape that, in any other scenario, would be beautiful.

They trucked through the drifts, trudged through snow cover whose height rivalled their wagons and plowed on towards the sight of campfire deep in the trees.

There was an odd scent in the air, one Aziraphale couldn’t place, that grew stronger as they approached the camp.

One man was away from the shelters, hunched over, his back to the rescue party.

  
“Hello there!” called one of the party members. “We’re here from California.”

  
The man stood; gaze snapped over to the group.

Whatever had his attention was thrown with haste into the snow as the man dove into a shelter.

  
“Goodness.” noted Aziraphale. “I suppose we scared him?”

  
“Might’ve.” Nodded the first member. “What was he holding? He threw it over there.”

  
Aziraphale volunteered to investigate, his boots sinking into the snow as he hiked over.

The object hadn’t created its own indent in the snow, but rather seemed to fall into a sizeable pit, too trekked out to be created by anything other than human hands.

As he drew close, that unidentifiable smell grew stronger, and soon he realized what it was.

It was confirmed once he glanced into the pit, his hand flying over his mouth as he fished for his handkerchief.

“Oh…oh no. O-Oh no. Oh…oh dear.” He muttered as his face grew pale.

  
The pit held a man, not long dead.

His body was in pieces, one of his legs at the very top, seemingly the piece the earlier man had been holding.

There were pieces missing from it.

_Bite marks_ littered the skin.

  
“N-No…mmph, no – “Aziraphale turned green and wretched.

  
“What is it, Mr. Fell?” called another party member.

  
“A…A body, I-I’m afraid.” He managed to eke out. “In p-p-pieces. That man we saw was holding the, _oh dear_ , the leg of the gentleman.”

“Cannibalism.” Uttered Reed with a slow nod. “I feared this might happen.”

  
“Does he appear murdered?” called another party member.

  
Aziraphale reluctantly surveyed the body, looked for the face’s expression for any signs of fear or pain.

It held only an expression of peace, of sleep.

“I don’t believe so.” He answered, hands fidgeting with his coat. “Seems a, ah, natural death.”

  
The other rescue party members gave each other grim looks and sage nods.

“T’was necessary, then, to survive.” Noted one man. “Unavoidable, as it is.”

  
“Yes.” Aziraphale mumbled as he shuffled in place. “Indeed.”

  
“There’s another body over here.”

  
Another rescue member, who’d gone to scout the rest of the camp, called from a distant tree, where indeed, another pit was outlined in the snow.

They found around five such pits, each with one or two bodies in various states of harvest, some mostly bones while others were flayed and emptied.

Most held the bodies of older adults, most likely succumbing to the cold or illness, but this wasn’t always the case.

  
“Can’t have been older than twenty-five.” Noted one man as he looked over a body. “And that face…that is _not_ the face of natural death.”

  
“Strangled, it seems.” Aziraphale pointed a shaking finger at the neck, still intact. “The bruising there is shaped like rope.”

  
“So…they _did_ murder at least one for food.” The man stroked his beard. “ _That_ is a problem.”

  
“It was not us! We were fooled! Tempted! Coerced!”

  
Aziraphale and the man turned to see one of the survivors, his clothes hanging loosely off his body, who fumbled up the hill and half sank into the snow.

  
“What do you mean, ‘coerced’?” questioned the man.

  
The survivor stared at them with boggling eyes, rimmed with dark circles.

“There was one man…I call him so reluctantly, for he revealed himself as a _devil_ in our travels. He had eyes like a _snake_.” He recalled with trembling voice. “He tempted us into murdering another and eating the bodies. We fell to his wicked suggestions and killed that young man there. Let the Lord forgive us; we let our hunger overwhelm our piety.”

  
“Pray well and you should be forgiven. Tis not your fault you were bamboozled.” Nodded the man.

  
As peaceful as his party member looked was as anxious Aziraphale started to feel.

“You said a man with, erm, snake eyes?” questioned Aziraphale, a pit growing in his stomach. “I-Is he, er, where is he?”

  
The survivor’s gaze snapped to him, almost causing Aziraphale to jump in fright, as a sober look crossed his face.

“We grew wise to the devil’s trickery. We chased him off into the deep woods, fashioned crucifixes out of tree branches and engaged in prayer. He should be back with his master at this point. We murdered none after his exile, I assure you.”

  
“I-I believe you.” Aziraphale fibbed as he glanced around the woods. “You say you chased him into _those_ woods?”

  
The survivor nodded.

  
“Perhaps, then, I should ensure that this ‘devil’ is gone for good. We cannot transport all of you at this time; I’d hate for him to, well, ‘bewitch’ you all again.” Aziraphale flared the slightest angelic grace, a small glow to highlight his eyes, to convince the survivor and his party member.

The two men nodded with a dumb look as they took in the celestial glow rolling off Aziraphale, long enough for Aziraphale to make his way into the woods, the two not questioning him further.

  
Far enough away from the humans, Aziraphale panted as he picked up the pace, tramping through snow and sinking every other step.

“Oh, for goodness – “He growled as he snapped, his feet floating to walk atop the snow.

Speed amplified, he tore through the woods as fast as he could, his wings popping out once he was completely out of sight.

His eyes flicked about, rapidly pulling in every tree, every shadow, any spot or crevice a roughly Crowley-shaped being could wedge themselves into.

He corrected it soon to include snake-sized beings once he considered that, yes, _that_ was a possibility too.

“Crowley?” He cried out; hands cupped around his mouth. “ _Crowley!_ ”

  
The winter wind was his only reply.

  
He tore through bushes, upturned logs and fallen branches, but aside from some terrified voles, he found nothing.

“CROWLEY!”

  
Still, no answer.

  
His search bordered on an hour as he finally flew back to the ground, his wings tucking away as he sucked in deep breaths.

“C-Crowley…” He gasped, a hand to his chest. “Oh, dear boy, where are you??”

He’d searched everything, every spot that seemed a good hiding spot, and came up empty.

There must’ve been something he missed, something out of place that’d suggest an improvised shelter.

Such as that log, and the seemingly uniform blanket of moss that hung over the side –

Aziraphale dashed over, slid to his knees and dug through accumulated snow and thatched moss.

“Crowley!” He cried. “Crowley – “

  
He halted as the last of the shelter crumbled.

  
“Oh…oh Crowley.”

  
To say Crowley looked miserable was a gross understatement.

His body laid slack against the log, half-tumbled into the snow, limbs limp with one half-heartedly draped across his chest like a makeshift blanket.

His clothes were soaked through, crusted over with ice and frost, board-like and not the least bit comfortable.

Frozen droplets of water, almost like tears, clung to his cheeks, whose skin had turned an unhealthy shade of red bordering on purple.

His eyes were open, but foggy and unfocused.

He was, also, mumbling to himself, seemingly unaware of Aziraphale’s presence.

  
Aziraphale almost broke down, almost cracked at the sight of his colleague, no, his _friend_ in such a state, so close to discorporation.

It was a miracle he _hadn’t_.

Why hadn’t he?

“Crowley?” Aziraphale reached for him, hands laying for just a second before he recoiled.

The demon’s skin was like ice.

“Crowley…” He started again and, this time, managed to lift Crowley from his spot. “…can you hear me, dear? It’s me, Aziraphale.”

Crowley groaned, lips wrenching open as he formed his first, intelligible word.

“No…”

Crowley’s pupils remained fixed on the forest ahead.

“N-No, no. N…no. N – mmph, m’sorry – “

  
“Shh, it’s alright. I’m here and I’m going to get you someplace safe. We’ll just get you nice and warm, and I’m sure you’ll feel right as rain.” Aziraphale smiled.

He, of course, had no clue if Crowley would feel right as rain now or ever again.

If what that survivor said was true, then Crowley had gone through the entire winter with the wagon train, trapped in the mountains for months of subzero temperatures and relentless storms.

… _why_ would he endure that?

He could’ve left.

Had _Hell_ mandated that he remain?

  
Something within Aziraphale started to boil.

  
He tucked Crowley close to his chest, extended his wings and flew through the tree line to expediate his rescue.

  
Crowley trembled, shook violently like a leaf, teeth chattering and low mumbles dripping from his lips like molasses.

Most of it was garbled syllables, incoherent noises of distress and grief, then occasional pitched whine.

  
But, on occasion, there was more.

  
“I-I didn’t mean…I-I didn’… _’ngel_.”

  
That nearly stopped Aziraphale mid-flight.

“D-Dear? Are you with me? Do you know where you are?”

  
Crowley didn’t answer Aziraphale’s questions.

A hand wrenched free from its frosted trap and painfully tangled itself in Aziraphale’s coat.

“I-I swear, I didn’t…I didn’ wan’…didn’ do… _I’m sorry_. M’sorry, m’sorry, m’sorry, m’sorry – “

Fresh tears melted the frozen ones as he buried his face against Aziraphale’s coat, low whines and hiccups pouring from his throat.

  
At a loss for words, Aziraphale only tucked him closer to his chest.

“It’s okay.” He hushed as he fluttered back to the ground. “It’s okay, that’s it. That’s it.”

A cautious hand carded through the demon’s frozen hair.

“I won’t leave you; I promise. You’re safe now. You’ll be okay.”

  
\--

  
At the first grunt, first noise of discomfort, Aziraphale’s eyes shot open.

  
His pupils flew down, fixed on the demon in his arms, who’d started to stir, eyes opening with clarity for the first time in days.

“Oh! O-Oh, there you are.” Aziraphale brushed some hair from Crowley’s face. “There we go. Dear, how are you feeling?”

  
Crowley blinked, slow and with visible effort, and stared up at Aziraphale.

“Where m’I?” He mumbled.

“Back of a wagon, dear boy. I came as part of a rescue party.” Aziraphale gave a sad smile. “You were frozen half to death when I found you by that log.”

  
“A-A log? Wha – How? I…how’d I -?”

  
Aziraphale paled.

“You…don’t remember?”

He watched, waited, but no spark of clarity crossed Crowley’s face.

He played with a button on his coat as he cleared his throat.

“Well, from what I gather, you had been travelling with a wagon train. The Donners, I believe that’s their names. You’d, ah, run aground so to speak in the Nevadas.”

His brow furrowed.

“Though, that is odd. Most trains leave quite early and the winter didn’t come much sooner than expected this year. Was your group, perhaps, held up? Ran into some trouble along the way?”

  
Crowley paused, his eyes drifting down thoughtfully, brow furrowed as he dug through his mushy memories.

“Yeah…yeah we were. We took a, erm, a _shortcut_.”

  
“Oh? Which one?”

  
Crowley’s face scrunched further. His eyes squeezed shut before they snapped open.

“ _Hasting’s Cutoff_. That’s it, yeah, I – “

The color started to drain from his face.

His gaze drifted down, voice shrinking.

“– _I_ pushed for that shortcut.”

He sank into his blankets, memories pouring over and his voice only growing softer.

“The shortcut was a bad steer. Knew that. I only wanted them to get annoyed, maybe run behind schedule, sow some discord or whatnot. That’s all I wanted. And it did that, at first. Lost them weeks of time. Got a bit nasty here or there but, really, I thought it was harmless.”

What small smile he made vanished as his story continued.

“Then…the Sierra Nevada. We were the last group in the train. We should’ve been able to pass through fine, but we opted for a day’s rest and…”

His eyes glistened; teeth dug lightly at his lip.

“…and that’s all it took.” He mumbled with his eyes averted. “That, _that_ one detour led to all this. All…a-all this. So many _dead_ – “

He bit back the welling tears.

“S’my fault.”

  
“Crowley,” started Aziraphale, laden with his own grief at seeing his colleague so distressed. “I…I’d hardly say this was _your_ fault alone.”

  
“Nah, yeah, just the _main_ instigator like always.” Crowley snorted as he burrowed into the blankets further. “The original tempter. S’in character, isn’t it?”

His gaze lowered.

His mouth was now obscured by the blankets.

“Guess I’ll get a commendation for this too, just like before.” He muttered.

  
“I…well, I thought a commendation was _good_ for you.” Aziraphale noted. “It means you have more leeway, er, more freedom as it were from your bosses.”

  
“Yeah, but I don’t want _this_ attached to me.”

  
“Let’s be honest, dear boy, this is hardly the _worst_ thing you’ve taken credit for.”

  
“I-I know! I _know_ , but – “

Crowley rose enough from the blankets to meet Aziraphale’s gaze.

  
In turn, Aziraphale flinched at the absolutely _stricken_ look across Crowley’s face.

  
“This is different. It’s so much smaller. I got to _know_ the people on the train. M’not saying they were all peachy and great people. Heck, quite a few _weren’t_ , but I knew them. And there were _kids_ , Aziraphale.”

His eyes watered again.

“So…so many _kids_.” His eyes grew hazy again, clouded with thoughts. “Most won’t make it. They’ll die because of – “

“ _Not_ you.” Aziraphale bit out, tone strong enough to force Crowley to meet his gaze again.

He lowered his voice, acutely aware of their fellow passengers.

“We both know that the mortality rates on these wagon trains are, well, less than sparkling. It’s very well possible they might’ve died _regardless_ of this, er, tragedy.”

  
Crowley gaped, then flushed again miserably.

“A-As if that makes it better, Angel.”

  
“No.” Aziraphale sobered as he adjusted his coat. “No, it doesn’t. I know. I’m sorry, Crowley.”

  
“I know what you meant.” Sniffed Crowley. “You mean well like always.”

  
“I could’ve worded it better.”

  
“Yeah. Probably.”

  
Aziraphale smirked, just a little, at that peek of true personality through the trauma and illness.

He adjusted the blankets around Crowley as well as his grip on the demon.

“A-Are you feeling better, by any chance?”

  
“Less like death, if that’s what you mean.” Crowley coughed and shuttered. “M’still bloody cold though.”

  
“I have stew. That might help.”

  
“Ngh, not my thing. Any whiskey?”

  
“Absolutely out of the question. Not until you’re better.”

  
Crowley frowned, pouted and sunk into his blankets.

“I’m starting to regret being rescued.”

  
“No, you don’t.”

  
“Can’t tell me what I think.” Crowley called as Aziraphale set him against the crates.

  
“Can’t hear you!” Aziraphale replied in a sing-song tone.

He subsequently stifled a giggle as he heard the demon grumble.

He returned with a bowl of stew and propped Crowley up to spoon-feed him.

  
“This is degrading.” He grunted.

  
“You’re shivering like a leaf. I hardly trust you to hold a spoon of hot stew right now.” Aziraphale scooped up the stew. “Open wide, please.”

  
Crowley craned away and scrunched his face.

  
“Oh, do stop fussing. Petulant toddlers are more cooperative.”

  
“I _won’t_ be spoon fed.”

“Well, it’s either this, or nothing.” Tutted Aziraphale. “I doubt you could heal yourself up right now.”

He pressed the spoon against Crowley’s lips and the demon, reluctantly, accepted it.

  
Crowley swallowed and gagged, lolled his tongue around the taste.

“Hate eating.” He muttered. “Gross.”

  
“Good lord, you _are_ a toddler.” Aziraphale tsk-ed.

He served another spoonful.

  
Despite his hatred of the stew, Crowley did start to feel marginally better, his shivers slowing incrementally with every spoonful, the mind fog clearing.

As he swallowed a fourth spoonful, he spoke again.

“Glad you found me.” He admitted. “Didn’t want to discorporate.”

  
Aziraphale stopped swirling the stew and looked over.

“Is it the paperwork?” He mused with a look sympathetic look.

  
“Not just that.” Said Crowley. “Like I said, didn’t want the commendation. Also didn’t want the _congrats_.”

  
Aziraphale stopped, set the spoon aside.

“Oh.”

He frowned.

“It…but to suffer for however long you were in the snow? You nearly _froze_ to death.”

  
Crowley grunted, shrugged, but offered no other answer.

  
Not that Aziraphale needed one.

“Well, for what it’s worth,” He scooped another spoonful. “it seemed quite…thoughtful of you, to care so much for everyone, even after being ostracized. Quite kind of you.”

  
“Keep talking like that and I _will_ flick that spoon away. Get it on your face.” Hissed Crowley.

  
“And then you’ll be cold again and _neither_ of us would be happy. We wouldn’t want that, would we?” Aziraphale noted with a smile.

  
Crowley grumbled, frowned and grunted, but nevertheless ate another spoonful.

  
“Thank you.”

  
“ _Don’t_. Start.”

  
“Very well then, dear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoooooo's running so far behind n writing is a slooooooogggg
> 
> everyone alright with whumpvember? cuz i will finish this even if it takes til the end of hte year lol


	23. Poisoned/Drugged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 22 - Poisoned/Drugged
> 
> In 79 AD, Crowley has been posted at Pompeii to ensure the city's destruction. Another demon has decided to get involved.
> 
> Luckily, a certain angel is nearby.
> 
> CW: blood, injury, (almost) major character death, panic attack

_79 AD_

_  
_Crowley had enjoyed the last few decades.

  
Italy had been wonderful, a microcosm of temperate climate, luscious wines and lovely culture.

A perfect little spot for a demon like him to reside.

  
A shame that, soon, he’d depart the Mediterranean, not to return for most likely a few centuries.

  
Not that he necessarily wanted to linger, especially in his current residence.

  
He peered down at the streets below, high from his rooftop loft, past billowing, sleek curtains.

Dozens of citizens scurried down the streets, belongings in their arms and loaded in carts, all directed towards the city gates.

Bordering them were the lackadaisical, those who lounged at the numerous inns and taverns, wine in hand, shaking their heads and laughing at the fleeing masses.

Crowley turned his attention away from the humans and towards the far more _pressing_ matter that loomed miles away.

  
Vesuvius, as the humans named it, had been a bit more active as of late.

Its rumbling and tremors had rippled through the valley, to the shores of the sea, churning water and disrupting many a potter’s work.

Most, however, chalked it up to normal activity.

Nothing of concern.

  
Crowley wished he could agree.

  
He’d done what he could, failed to stop the fleeing masses from leaving the city, if only to ensure a few survivors.

He couldn’t interfere any further; for whatever reason, the destruction of Pompeii was a high priority for Hell’s higher ups, and he was the primary agent to ensure _some_ souls were gathered for Hell’s benefit.

Thus, he’d stayed, even as he felt the volcano start to bubble and spew, its eruption growing ever imminent.

Yet the remaining citizens seemed peaceful, even passive, to the growing danger that stood above them.

He supposed they didn’t understand, or knew, the danger that awaited them.

Still, he couldn’t help but feel that maybe, just maybe, his own lackadaisical nature towards everything (a volcano was hardly enough to permanently kill a demon) had influenced his dear neighbors, all of whom remained in the city.

  
He draped, leaned against the corner of the window, gaze returning to the city below as the fleeing citizens tapered in number.

  
Damnit, he needed a drink.

  
He strolled, sauntered over towards a table crowded with delicacies mostly of the fruit variety, though a few cheeses and meats were present too, and plaintively ignored them for the jug of something drinkable at the end.

He lifted the jug and poured himself a hearty goblet-full, sloshed the violet liquid around its circumference.

He returned to the window and toasted the very volcano itself.

  
“Til next time, you massive, er, thing you.” He muttered as he took a swig, rolled the sweet tang around his tongue. “Hope to never see you again like, uh, this.”

  
His escape plan returned to the forefront.

He’d had it in his mind, a little cottage up north, _too_ far north for his liking.

But it’d be far from the clouds of ash that were sure to accumulate, to spread towards neighboring countries.

He had, after all, been warned that this eruption would be cataclysmic.

The farther north the better, even if his reptilian blood didn’t agree.

  
…damn, if he wouldn’t miss the Mediterranean sun.

The cerulean sea.

The music, the wine, and the _people_.

  
He took another gulp, swallowed it roughly.

Averted his gaze from the looming _end_ that stood above the city.

Perhaps, for the time, he could simply enjoy his last minutes as a citizen of Pompeii.

It had been nice.

Almost lazy even.

Seeding chaos, dissent, a few temptations here and there, most oft-handedly cast given the hustle and bustle of the trading center.

He was at least proud of encouraging the tradition of graffiti in the city; what better than to encourage public vandalism as an acceptable form of communication?

It had been wonderful.

“ _Shame it’s about to end._ ” He thought with a rueful look between mouthfuls of wine. “ _Wonder where they’ll send me next?_ ”

  
He’d heard, somewhere, that things were heating up in the Gaelic heartlands.

Something about tribal disputes or something of the other.

He grimaced and gagged.

Not that the people weren’t nice but the _weather_.

Far too cold for his liking.

Forget that his escape plan was to _willing_ head there.

It was simply convenient.

  
…well, suppose it hadn’t happened yet.

Perhaps fortune would favor him, and he’d travel down south towards Australia.

Been a hot minute since he’d been there.

He finished his goblet of wine.

He tilted the goblet, watched the last droplets swirl around which he swept onto his tongue.

His brain reeled as he glanced over his shoulder, lazily eyed the jug of wine.

  
“ _…hmph, strong stuff. Not usually_ this _buzzed after one cup._ ” He thought as he took a step forward.

  
That was the _only_ step he took as, when he attempted the next, his body folded like an accordion, crumpling to the floor, goblet rolling from his grasp.

  
He fell hard, face to the ground, nose bruised and aching waves of pain through his skull.

He groaned and tried to lift himself, move his arms or legs or _anything_.

But it was like navigating through fog.

Nothing happened, responded, or even twitched.

He was effectively a dead body splayed on the floor of his flat, alone.

  
“So, it is true. Devil’s nightshade; a potent poison against demons. Never expected _this_ potent.”

  
Scratch that.

_Not_ alone.

…shit.

  
From a darkened corner, a figure slinked forward, teeth pointed, and face caked in dirt and other things.

Their neck, kinked and long, was framed by matted, gray feathers.

A demon, clearly, but not one Crowley recognized.

Most likely a lesser one, low on Hell’s ladder, but that didn’t matter in the moment because _they_ could move.

And they were moving towards him.

  
“Well Crawly, comfy there? Not that I give a damn, but thought I’d ask.” Purred the demon.

  
Crowley wanted to glare, but it seemed even his facial muscles were locked away.

All he could do was utter a stifled grunt, a growl of the weakest caliber.

The demon crouched down, wove their fingers through his hair and yanked _hard_ , lifted his head upright to meet their eyes.

Their wall-eyed gaze snapped to focus, met his with their gray pupils.

“You’ve got quite the reputation down below, you know. Seems you’ve been getting all the _bad_ work. Not much wiggle room for us little guys.” Hissed the demon. “And know what? M’sick of it. So, you’re getting an extended holiday.”

Their other hand flew to his throat, clenched and lifted Crowley onto his knees, then up in the air.

They tossed Crowley across the room, against the lush bed, knocking aside an end table and spilling a vase of flowers.

They strolled over, picked Crowley back up, and set him on a chair they’d miracled into existence.

“Thought you might appreciate it. Get to see this little town go up in flames. Might be the only fun you have for a century or two. Hell’s gotten slow on the corporation distribution.” Gloated the demon. “There’ll be a vacancy for Hell’s earth agent then. Guess who’ll be first in line for that?”

  
Crowley growled, sputtered shouts between locked lips, glared as much as he could.

  
The demon simply laid a finger over his lips and shushed him.

  
“Stop. It’s pitiful, and it’s not demonic to pity others.” Grinned the demon. He clapped his cheek. “Chin up. You only have a few hours of this before you’ll be back below. Better savor the spectacle.”

Hands on Crowley’s shoulders, he shoved him and chair in front of the window, adjusted the angle so he faced the smoldering Vesuvius.

The demon then stood and walked away, the brief stench of Hellfire marking his departure.

  
Leaving Crowley, alone, sat on a chair, utterly helpless as the tremors of Vesuvius grew in intensity, shaking bowls and urns off their shelves to shatter across the floor.

He tried to move, tried to tumble off the chair, maybe crawl towards the door.

Tried to _blink_.

Still, nothing.

His eyes started to water.

  
And there was nothing he could do as the tears started to roll, and Vesuvius unleashed its first blast of smoke and ash.

\--

He’d been enjoying a fine lunch, olives and charcuterie, when the blast shook Naples.

  
His food toppled to the ground, the denizens around him falling to their knees, some dropping platters and goblets, as all faces turned to the sky.

Through the clear blue grew a blanket of dark gray, the air lightly tinged with flakes of ash.

Aziraphale pulled himself to his feet, eyes like the others turned to the sky, the shivers of oncoming death rattling his spine.

Oh…oh this was certainly not good.

  
“Ahead! There, across the bay. Vesuvius is on fire!” cried a citizen to the masses.

  
Aziraphale hustled with a few others to a vantage point, up a dusty hill, and gasped at the sight of Vesuvius throwing plumes of smoke into the stratosphere, orange magma spewing over its peak.

He lingered behind the main masses, staggered against an olive tree and clung to its trunk, blood draining from his face at the sight.

It’d been some time since he’d witnessed an eruption, but the terror of it never passed.

He eyed the land across the bay, tried to recall the maps he’d scoured for any towns or provinces that might be in the magma’s path.

His mind, however, had gone blank.

All he could focus on was the smoke and the ash that started to gently fall over the city.

  
“You aren’t to save them, you know.”

He yelped, jumped at the voice behind him, spun on his heel.

He turned to meet the face of one stout angel.

  
“A-Ah! Sandalphon! What a, erm, surprise.” Aziraphale flustered as he smoothed his toga. “How can I help you?”

  
“Can’t help _me_ , but I’m here to help _you_.” Sandalphon smirked, a glint of his gold teeth shining. “To keep with the program, that is. And to remind you that you’re _not_ to interfere with Vesuvius’s eruption.”

  
“Oh…oh, this is one of the, um, necessary…necessary tragedies for the Great Plan?” Aziraphale recited with thinned lips, eyes turning back to the volcano.

  
“Precisely.” Grinned Sandalphon. “Really hate to badger you, but after the _last_ time I just wanted to make sure. Heaven doesn’t give out corporations willy-nilly, you know.”

  
“Y-Yes, I’m aware.” Aziraphale fumbled with his sleeves, mind turning to that unpleasant business a few centuries ago.

He hadn’t meant to interfere.

He simply couldn’t stand by and paid for it with a rather embarrassing discorporation.

“I won’t interfere. Hardly think I could stop an entire volcano from erupting.”

  
“Good. We’re _so_ glad to hear that.” Sandalphon sighed. “I won’t withhold you from your duties, then. Keep up the righteous work, _soldier_.”

His gaze directed skyward and he disappeared in a flash of light.

  
Aziraphale flinched, reeled at the bright light.

It took a minute to gather himself, calm his mind and keep his gaze averted from the volcano.

Not that it helped; as an angel, he could feel the loss of life, no matter how small.

And goodness, the _loss_ of life.

  
Death’s presence had flooded forward, filled the air like thick soup, and it sent shivers through his body.

So many lives ending, all in the cities surrounding the volcanoes, lives both short and long, all defined by terror that, suddenly, was silenced.

Aziraphale thickly swallowed and staggered away, trailed after the fleeing citizens as they hounded the gates.

Belongings were tossed from windows, obstinate animals herded to the fields outside Naples, and carts were yanked along.

The ash had settled like fog in the city and soon, shards of debris hailed down upon the heads of the masses.

Aziraphale yanked a broken sheet of wood and held it over his head, soon forgoing it as it caught fire.

Everything, _everywhere_ , emanated such latent fear that Aziraphale was drowning in it.

  
His throat had tightened, mouth going dry, either from it or inhaling the ash.

It simmered in the air like gasoline vapors, crowding all other thought or sensation, feeling or cry.

He stomped forward as the fear intensified, spilled over as a blast rocketed through the land once more and the ash drifted in downpours.

Aziraphale gasped, tripped to his knees and narrowly avoided being trampled, his hand grasping at his throat.

The prayers, the cries both audible and not had swelled his mind, the fearful pleas for mercy and rescue, so many and all so urgent.

Yet, he could answer _none_.

  
So much power, yet nothing he could do.

  
It pulled a sob from his throat, the uselessness he felt.

  
His eyes fell shut and he sat there, frozen, as the cries multiplied, and volume intensified.

Until one, just one, sliced through all the rest, distinctly different yet no less terrified.

  
_AZIRAPHALE_

  
His eyes shot open.

This was a cry for help, but to _him_ specifically.

Someone needed him.

_Him_.

He felt around, clambered for the threads of the message, the SOS that came from not too far off.

He traced it to the city of Pompeii, right under the volcano’s shadow, and he felt for the cry’s energy as it faded.

  
_AZIRAPHALE_

  
It rang out again and Aziraphale grabbed at the sensation.

He felt the signature, the power behind it that overcame the mortal pleas.

It was demonic.

Only one demon knew him.

Only one demon would call for him in a time like this.

  
“Crowley…” Aziraphale uttered low as his attention snapped back to the volcano.

For a moment, they deviated back to the sky.

They were watching him.

For him to disobey, to run towards the volcano to save a demon’s life.

Treason.

No other word for it.

His fingers curled around his sleeves.

He couldn’t.

Not so soon after a ‘meeting’ with an archangel, no.

No, they’d be watching him so closely –

His mind threw forward a memory, helpful or not.

Patronius’s restaurant, decades back.

They shared oysters and wine.

They exchanged stories.

They’d laughed.

Joked.

Aziraphale felt the most at ease in thousands of years that day.

  
…

He pulled himself to his feet.

He let his hand draw skyward, not allowing himself to think another moment.

And snapped.

  
He reappeared in the streets of Pompeii which, somehow, were thousands of times _worse_ than the scene at Naples.

Ash had already settled in deepening levels across the streets and rooftops, several of the sickest citizens already dead on the ground, suffocating from the smoke.

Others yet laid splayed on the ground, bleeding from various places, bodies bashed in by falling rock and cinders.

Even more yet were running, fleeing the onslaught of destruction, ducking into buildings or escaping towards the city’s gates with various improvised shields to guard themselves from the falling rock.

  
Aziraphale walked through them, the groups parting like the Red Sea, as he followed the demonic signature he sensed.

_aziraphale_

_aziraphale_

_aziraphale_

_Aziraphale_

He jogged around a corner, past a collapsed tavern and a destroyed brothel.

_Aziraphale_

_Aziraphale_

_Aziraphale_

_PLEASE, AZIRAPHALE, WHERE ARE YOU_

_  
_“I’m coming! Crowley, please, I’m on my way!” Aziraphale panted as the voice echoed in his ears.

His eyes drew up towards the luxury flats where silky curtains billowed through open windows.

  
There.

There he was.

His colleague, fr –

He sat at the window; eyes fixed on the volcano.

  
…why wasn’t he moving??

  
Aziraphale rushed for the downstairs, beelined towards and up the stairs, bashing in the door to Crowley’s flat.

He was still sitting as he barreled over, hands reaching and yanking him from the open window.

And he got a good look at him.

  
His head lolled back, seemingly boneless, eyes fixed perpetually open with slit pupils almost ovular with terror.

Tears had stained tracks across his cheeks, stained his toga and the floor below.

His eyes met Aziraphale’s gaze and, just barely, he heard the lightest cry of relief through glued lips.

  
“Oh, oh Crowley, I’m glad I found you.” One hand left Crowley’s shoulder to support his head. “W-What’s going on? Why haven’t you left the city??”

  
His only response was a strained sob and a desperate look from the demon, eyes trying to convey so much in so little time.

  
“You…you can’t move. Is that it?” Aziraphale’s eyes scanned the demon, looking for any evidence to disprove his theory.

  
His heart sank as a whimper slipped from Crowley, the tears increasing once more.

  
“Oh…oh _Crowley_.” Aziraphale’s heart ached as he scooped him into his arms. “Here we go. N-Now, hold on if you can. Or I suppose you can’t…well, either way, we’re getting out of here.”

He tucked Crowley against his chest, propped his face so he didn’t have to see the destruction any longer, perhaps allow his eyes to rest.

His arm tucked under his knees, his other arm supporting his upper torso, not quite bridal style but closer to a cradle.

He contemplated the stairs before deciding not to chance it again.

He stepped onto the windowsill, stretched his wings out, and flew back out onto the streets.

  
As his feet hit the ground, another blast rocked the area and nearly tipped him forward, his sandals digging into the dirt.

Shielding Crowley against himself, he craned to look back towards the volcano.

His mouth dropped as a flurry of cinders and rock burst into the air, arcing down over the ruins of Pompeii.

“Oh dear. We should get a wiggle on, I think.”

  
He heard Crowley grunt in response.

  
Well, at least Crowley was _somewhat_ his usual self.

Aziraphale bounded through the streets, curving his wings over himself and Crowley, shielding them from the hailstorm of fire that rained upon the streets.

The air had quickly grown noxious, too full of soot and toxic fumes to be breathable as the cluttered bodies soon proved.

Aziraphale averted his gaze, unwilling to lose himself in the pure tragedy of it all.

When they passed a house with a few cowering denizens, he still spared a miracle, giving the mother and father the idea of stealing their neighbor’s horses, left abandoned at a nearby stable.

“ _Well, could say I only encouraged them to act. Didn’t tell them to_ steal _the horses._ ” He justified with a frown. “ _Just borrow them_.”

He rounded a corner and made a break for the looming city gates, the stone arch half collapsed from the falling debris.

  
His foot had skirted the boundary, skidding down the rubble as a blistering heat encompassed his back and sent him falling the rest of the way down.

  
He screamed, floundered and rolled, Crowley braced all the way until he came to a stop, the smell of something burning filling his nose.

The searing only worsened, electric shocks of pain shooting into his shoulder blades, the pain intensifying as he wobbled onto his feet.

  
“’ngel!” Crowley mumbled, pupils flitting over Aziraphale’s shoulder.

  
He followed his gaze and, immediately, found what was burning.

Oh no.

Aziraphale hissed and pulled his wings back into their ethereal space, the flames extinguishing immediately once they vanished.

A few charred feathers and fluff floated to the ground, the pain still lacing through his back in a pulsating rhythm.

Aziraphale gritted his teeth, forced a smile as he realized Crowley was still eying him.

“Ah, there we go. No harm done. L-Let’s, uh, keep on going. I have a place in Naples. Should, erm, be standing still.”

He tucked Crowley back against his chest, hoping to avoid his scrutinizing gaze as he continued their escape.

  
His sandals scraped against collected, hot ash, rubble and broken wood.

He darted around and avoided the fallen citizens, those who couldn’t make the final stretch towards the northern road.

He gave his prayers and condolences as he went.

Between those moments, his mind returned to Crowley.

He glanced down at the demon curled against him.

There was a small rumbling against his chest.

Hunger?

  
He listened closer.

Oh…

“Crowley, dear,” Aziraphale started quietly. “are you alright?”

A yellow eye snapped up to Aziraphale.

A yellow, watering eye.

He was shivering terribly, skin pallid.

Sweat gathered, mixed with the soot dusting his face to create some odd paste.

He didn’t answer, only clung to Aziraphale’s robes.

  
Aziraphale’s heart broke but he tried not to let that show.

“I…I will help you; you know. I suppose as an angel it is part of the job, demon or not.” Aziraphale said with pursed lips. “So, if you can, what exactly happened? Why can’t you move, Crowley?”

  
Crowley wrenched his head up, an effort that seemed to take nearly all his strength.

What remained focused on pulling his lips apart, enough to utter a single word.

“P’sn.”

  
“Po…Poison?” Aziraphale’s eyes flew open. “Dear me. I suppose that makes sense.”

His gaze fell to Crowley’s chest and he _looked_ deeper, through his corporeal form towards his true self.

Ah.

There it was.

And goodness, whatever Crowley had been poisoned with was a doozy.

It had wrapped itself like, well, a snake around his soul, a snare that held and squeezed intermittently, a bright purple against stark red.

It seemed not to do much more than that; it didn’t pulsate more of itself through Crowley’s soul but Aziraphale figured it was doing more than enough.

  
It must be to leave Crowley like this, helpless and desperate for help.

Not like the Crowley he’d come to know over the millennia.

  
“I-I’ll be able to heal you, but not here. I’ll need to focus.” Aziraphale nodded. “But I promise. I’ll remove the poison once we get somewhere safer.”

  
As if the universe heard him, a shard of rock sized close to a rabbit struck the ground near Aziraphale’s feet, sending molten earth and cinders flying into the air.

  
Aziraphale pulled Crowley back close to him and hightailed it towards the road, towards the last few crowds of people fleeing the disaster.

The roads were quickly being overtaken by layers upon layers of ash, jamming wagon wheels and slowing progress to a halt.

Vesuvius had yet to cease its rumblings, to stop the rivers of magma that boiled the surrounding seas.

They drew close to a wagon filled with sacks and crates, piloted by a man shouting at his donkeys.

“Ah, there we are. I, um, don’t believe he’ll mind a few stowaways.” He smiled as he trotted up to the wagon’s rear.

He hoisted Crowley onto the sacks, pulling a loose tarp partly over his body to shield him from the noxious snow.

“There we are. Snug as a bug.” He chirped.

  
Crowley, despite the pain, rolled his eyes at him.

  
“Oh, do stop that.” Aziraphale rolled his eyes back. “Or, well, I suppose if you’re acting like…well, _yourself_ , that’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

He grabbed the side of the wagon and started to lift himself, one foot planted on the wagon’s bed.

“Perhaps the poison is fading a bit? Try to wiggle a finger or, hm, the nose? Whichever one would be easiest to – “

  
The sound that came from Vesuvius was indescribable.

  
Like a blast, so loud that it nearly ruptured the eardrums of all in its vicinity.

From its maw plummeted a tidal wave of smoke, tephra and ash, that careened down its slopes, swallowing Pompeii in the blink of an eye.

  
It quaked, shook the earth, rumbling and disorienting wagon wheels and steeds, sending belongings tumbling lost into fields and coast.

  
Sending one angel, barely posted against the wagon, toppling off, free rolling back down the road, back towards Pompeii, back towards the _ash clouds_.

  
“’ziraphale!” Crowley wrenched out; eyes wide as he fought with his deadened limbs.

  
In the distance, too far from the wagon or the survivors, Aziraphale groaned and lifted his head.

Warmth slipped down his forehead, across his nose.

The world swam around him.

He staggered, tried to crawl to his feet, but only managed to lift onto his knees.

He took one look back to see the advancing ash clouds, the sulfurous plumes that were, no doubt, as hot as the magma rolling down the mountain.

  
He swallowed, mouth dry and full of ash.

He closed his eyes.

Threw his wings out once more, now gray with ash and burns.

He covered himself, curled in like a turtle.

And waited.

  
\--

  
As soon as Aziraphale fell from the wagon, as soon as the sight of the angel was swallowed by the oncoming ash cloud, he cried.

  
Not a small cry either.

  
A horrified, pitched sob mixed with a wail at not just the discorporation of the being closest to what he’d call a friend, but how abjectly useless he was in the moment.

  
“ _Useless._ _Pathetic_.”

  
He’d bit his lip bloody as the moment repeated, went on loop, in his mind, as he stared endlessly at the spot Aziraphale had landed, even as it vanished from sight.

Replayed.

Reran.

Wondered.

Ruminated.

All the above.

  
…

  
It was all he did for the wagon ride, which only ended nearly a day later.

  
The air was barely clearer where they stopped, the ash clouds still hanging heavy overhead, the air still tinged with cinders and burnt detritus.

The survivors, shaken and traumatized, gathered around a campfire, cooking what meagre ingredients they had or scavenged.

Children clung close to parents, wrapped in blankets.

A few mothers returned with sorrowful eyes, recounting a lack of clean water in the area, all polluted by ash.

  
He remained by the same wagon, laid back against the wheels, his eyes only leaving the horizon to return to the test Aziraphale had suggested.

He focused on his pinky, thought hard about flicking it, curling it into his palm.

A bead of sweat rolled down as he stared at the digit.

It rebelled.

Then, finally, the smallest twitch.

A tiny movement of the tip to curl inwards.

He panted, a small wave of relief that, perhaps, the poison _would_ run its course.

Healing or not, he’d be back to normal eventually.

  
…

It didn’t make things much better.

  
His focus returned to the horizon, to the road towards whatever remained of Pompeii, trained for a white-haired figure he could point out of any crowd.

One he’d never admit he, occasionally, sought out solely for a conversation.

For company.

Because, well…

…he is fascinating.

“ _Was_.”

  
He shook the thought free and laid against the wheel, cringed at the taste of sulfur and soot on his tongue.

His eyes remained fixed as he sighed, lids fluttering closed despite his efforts.

He needed to keep an eye out.

Just in case.

Because _no_ , Aziraphale hadn’t been discorporated.

No, he wouldn’t have a century without his colleague.

No way.

  
…no.

  
He breathed a raspy breath and was taken by sleep, shallow and restless.

  
It lasted but a few minutes.

  
He jolted awake as the ground crunched a while away from him, eyes flicking to the horizon.

If he could smile, he would.

  
Because he was right.

  
Aziraphale, turned gray with soot, toga singed to scraps, limped his way towards the camp, keeping quiet amidst the few who slept.

The blood on his forehead had dried, cutting through the gray with crimson.

His hand clasped his right shoulder which, similarly, was stained red.

He walked hunched over, like he was seconds away from collapsing.

  
Oh, if only he could move.

Crowley could only watch helplessly as Aziraphale, achingly slow, crept to his side.

  
“H-Hello dear.” Aziraphale coughed, voice the raspiest of everyone’s. He smeared some soot off his face. “Sorry for the hold up. A-Afraid I, um, was caught up – oh!”

His legs, finally, buckled.

  
And Crowley, through sheer determination, imagination, or something else, threw himself forward and, narrowly, caught his angel.

His body protested, ached and sent pins and needles through every nerve as the poison reaffirmed its presence.

He didn’t care.

“Don’ a-a-apologize.” Crowley mumbled. “Gl’d you’re in one p-piece.”

  
“Oh, did I worry you? Terribly sorry.”

  
“Mmph. Didn’. N-Not w-w-worried.” Crowley forced out.

  
“Oh! The poison. H-Here, let…let me heal – “

  
“Ngh, _no_.” Crowley’s head fell against Aziraphale’s shoulder. “No.”

  
“But you’re still…still in pain - ?”

  
“ _No_.”

  
Careful hands moved to return his grasp.

“…are you sure, dear boy? I-I’m certain I could – “

  
“ _No_.”

  
“Ah. Okay.”

Aziraphale sagged against Crowley.

“Thank you.”

  
“Don’.” Crowley made a negative noise, a grunt. “Mm-nn. No.”

“Right.” Aziraphale sighed. “Forgot myself.”

  
Crowley’s eyes swept over his friend’s body, his corporation, ensured that this was real, and he wasn’t hallucinating this.

He froze as a short wave of warmth, angelic energy, swept through his body.

“Angel!”

  
“Couldn’t help it. Y-You’re in pain – “

  
“You are _too_. You…I…” Crowley took advantage of his newly loosened limbs to pull Aziraphale into his arms. “…we’re both resting. Now. Before either of us does anything more stupid and discorporates.”

  
“That would be awful.”

  
“ _Yes_.” Crowley hissed.

He furrowed his brow, kept his face against Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“And I couldn’t deal with that. Not again.”

  
“I’m sorry, dear?”

  
“Nothing.” Crowley grunted.

  
He could feel Aziraphale’s eyes burn through the back of his head.

  
“S’ _nothing_.” He grunted again as he squeezed Aziraphale. “Please.”

  
“…very well.” Affirmed Aziraphale. “I do agree though. Some rest would be nice.”

  
“It would.”

  
He felt Aziraphale tense, try to stand, and fail.

“I-I’m terribly sorry dear. I seem to be quite tuckered out and – “

  
“ _Don’t_. It’s fine.”

Crowley held once more onto Aziraphale; hands buried in sooty cloak.

“For tonight, it’s fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tis was supposed to b crowley whump but whoops aziraphale whump instead sort of
> 
> happy (barely belated) halloween everyone!!


	24. I'll Sleep Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 23 - Exhaustion/Sleep Deprivation
> 
> Set between Ep. 2 and 3; Campbell is more determined than ever to be a successful DJ after a close call and is willing to give anything to succeed. Including sleep.
> 
> CW: friendship

There was a strict curfew.

  
All patients in bed by ten.

  
No one to be out of their room unless needing the loo or for emergency.

  
Nurses would be on night duty, their eyes kept on the hallways, not to mention the orderlies that still mill through the halls taking care of night duties and morning preparation.

  
For most, it’d be impossible to sneak or do much of anything.

  
Then again, Fergus wasn’t like most.

He laid still on in his bed, waited until the night dragged on long enough that the nurses grew complacent, most orderlies preferring to take their smoke breaks than another round.

Nothing would happen, they must have figured.

Another calm, boring night.

  
Exactly how he liked them to think.

He slipped his sheets down, careful not to creak the cheap, metal frames or let anything clatter against the linoleum.

He drew the sheets back up, bundled them with heavy lumps and slipped the wig he’d snatched some time ago against the pillow.

Too close of an examination, yes, it wasn’t even close to convincing.

But from a distance?

It’d do.

It worked several times before.

  
He knew the nurses weren’t checking.

  
He crouched below his bed, grabbed his knapsack of various escape tools, the usual plethora that had served him well over the years, combed and chosen with well documented, mental notes on pros and cons.

He’d been thorough for tonight.

This was one escape he couldn’t mess up, though he supposed it sounded easier than most of his escapades.

  
The easiest ones, however, were the ones that were most easily messed up.

  
Thus, no time to let his guard down.

He slipped the knapsack across the ground, ensured the buckles didn’t scrape or clatter, and slipped a strap around his shoulder, beneath his night shirt.

He snuck, crept with careful feet, aware of his roommate and ensured that not a single creak echoed in the room.

He reached the door, pulled out his organ donor card.

Slipped it through the crack.

Bingo.

  
The door slid open without hesitation.

And he was out.

\--

  
_It’d been a close one._

_  
But Campbell had been clever, feigning that manic episode._

_  
He was set to remain at St. Jude’s for a few more months._

_  
It sounded like plenty of time, but everyone knew that time was funny in places like hospitals, dragging yet speeding along at rates seemingly impossible, months passing in seconds._

_  
And none knew it more than Campbell._

_  
Any moment he wasn’t broadcasting the show, he’d been hard at work, brainstorming ideas, setlists, openings and closings and bumpers between songs, fine-tuning his DJ persona at the expense of all else._

_  
Literally, all else._

_  
Fergus had been picking at his lunch, poking at the suspicious green gelatin, when Campbell flopped himself down._

_He flopped, yes._

_Courtesy of his properly trendy haircut._

_But he was flopping more than usual, limbs joining his hair’s fringe._

_  
Rosalie, finishing her work of scrubbing the lunch tray, looked up with only a mother’s concern._

_“Hello, Campbell. Alright, love?”_

_  
“Oh!” Campbell’s head shot up and his grin was chipper as ever. “Alright! Better than alright, I’ve been working. Inspired, you could say. Look!”_

_He flashed a bundle of notebook paper covered in chicken scratch._

_“Setlists, all planned out for the next month, plenty of loony favorites_ plus _a few new ones, aye, think_ this _will be what the station needs. Talked to Eddie, getting a few new records in, none of the overdone tripe. Oh, it’ll be massive!”_

_He rambled, on and on, like usual, slapping the papers against the table and prodding with a blunt pencil, regaling with details on his selections and specifics, all too like usual._

_  
Fergus might’ve supposed that the usual, manic energy was why him and Rosalie seemed all too fixed on what_ wasn’t _usual._

_  
“Ah, that’s all completely_ lovely _, Campbell.” Rosalie interrupted with a thinned smile. “You must’ve worked very hard on it all.”_

_  
Campbell looked back up, grinned._

_“Oh aye, but it doesn’t mind me. All for the craft and that, you know.”_

_  
“But of course.” Rosalie averted her eyes, scrubbed her hands as she held his gaze again. “But ah, dear, you, erm, well…you have been sleeping too, right?”_

_  
Campbell’s smile, so slightly, faded._

_  
“All I know is that_ that _much work – “_

_  
“Oh yeah. Yeah. I rest. Between, uh, setlists. Rest a little. Nippy nap. No worries I do…that.”_

_  
“You got circles under your eyes.” Fergus pointed with his spoon._

_  
Campbell’s smile faded further, only the glint of a toothy grin still visible._

_“I do?”_

_  
“Aye.” Fergus nodded. “You haven’t been sleeping.”_

_  
“Oi! I have! I have. Donnae need…agh, like I said, I am_ fine _. Besides, if I wasn’t sleeping, don’t you think the nurses would be on me every minute?”_

_  
“Fair point. Very fair.” Rosalie nodded._

_  
“Exactly! So, I’m sleeping enough. I am resting and that is…is it.”_

_Campbell’s gaze faded, unfocused, for a lengthy moment._

_His head dipped, chin tilting towards his sternum, hair falling in front of his eyes._

_  
“Campbell?” Fergus leaned in._

_  
“Am fine!” Campbell’s head shot up as the rest of him did too. “I, uh, think I’ll go work on the station things. Nice chatting with you all.”_

_  
“Oh Campbell, love, wait!” called Rosalie._

_  
But Campbell had already made his escape._

\--

  
Despite his towering height, Fergus found that he had the uncanny ability to blend into the background.

  
Case in point came with an orderly, who really should have seen him but, possibly due to his preoccupation with his Walkman, simply walked by as he hid in the shadows.

  
Orderly out of the way, Fergus glanced over, smirked a little in satisfaction, before proceeding.

He held close to the walls, rounded the corner by the nurse’s station, and froze.

He clung to the shadows, watched with the lightest twinges of nervousness, as the head nurse flipped through her magazine, seemingly blind to the world.

He breathed the smallest sigh of relief, the only noise he’d chance to utter, before he continued, past the recreation room, eyes on the hallway ahead illuminated by a single light.

  
The radio station’s lights.

  
A-ha.

Fergus slid, jumped into a corner as Stuart slunk by, swaggering in his usual, slimy fashion, cigarette hanging from his lips.

Another night, he might’ve chanced frisking his cigarette carton from his back pocket.

It was tempting.

“ _Focus, Fergus. For once in your life, focus._ ”

  
He proceeded, hung low beneath the station’s window as he listened close.

He could hear a low scratching, the hum of machinery.

But no voice.

  
He frowned; brows furrowed.

He snuck along until he was beneath the doorknob.

He dared to stand upright, hidden away from the door’s window, card at the ready.

He started to slip it through the crack.

…

He stopped.

Right, he had a key.

He fished it from his pocket, pushed it into the keyhole.

Opened the door.

And peeked inside.

\--

  
_He’d been on his way back from the loo, clock creeping towards four, the hospital silent save for his footsteps._

_  
An orderly was by his side, ensuring he didn’t deviate given his designation as a “flight risk”, who seemed to want to be anywhere other than with him._

_  
Not that it bothered Fergus._

_  
They walked past multiple, darkened rooms, each with slumbering patients in differing states of peaceful rest._

_The strong smell of cleaning supplies designated Rosalie’s._

_The first empty room they passed, he remembered, once belonged to Nana._

_Each room there was some clue as to who stayed there._

_  
Which is why he slowed by one room, the only room with the glow of a light seeping through, faint and yellow._

_  
His stop jolted the orderly, though he paid him no attention as his gaze fixed on the source of the light._

_It was muffled underneath a blanket, illuminating a figure sat hunched over, whose movement went still as soon as Fergus peered in._

_He watched the figure fumble, sheets rustling, and the light extinguish soon afterward, the figure lying flat on the mattress once more._

_  
Somehow, Fergus knew who it was, and it only surprised him how little the orderly reacted when he too peered inside._

_He’d used the loo at various times of night over the last week and, without fail, Campbell was awake._

_Whether it’s midnight or five in the morning, he was awake._

_Torch hidden under his sheets._

_Working._

_  
“Come on. Back to bed then.” Sniffed the orderly._

_  
Fergus followed with a reluctant gait after giving the room one last look._

\--

  
His back was to the door, sat in the swivel chair, headphones plastered over his ears.

  
He was hunched over, eyes glued on the turn table, hand absently writing notes on a piece of scratch paper.

  
Fergus didn’t bother to hide himself as he shut the door behind him, walked up to Campbell who still had yet to acknowledge him.

He looked over, considered how to break the silence, and eventually settled on turning off the station’s equipment.

He flicked a switch, and everything powered down, including Campbell’s turntable, save for the lights.

  
Campbell, finally, sat upright.

He muttered, leaned over and slapped the turntable, fiddled with the needle as the headphones slipped from his ears.

“The heck…s’it broken? Cannae have, it’s brand new.”

  
“Campbell.”

  
Campbell swore under his breath, flailed back in his chair and knocked a stack of records to the floor, breaking a Donovan in the process.

“Christ, Fergus! Don’t scare me like that!” He snapped, eyes wide and framed with darker circles, hair a mess and strands plastered to his forehead.

He righted himself, braced himself against his knees as he leaned forward.

“Hell are you doing up? You know the nurses are still around, you’ll get tossed back in bed!”

  
“Was going to ask you the same thing.”

  
Campbell’s eyes dropped, teeth slid against his bottom lip, until he frowned and turned back away.

He scrambled for his paperwork which, now closer, Fergus could see that somehow his chicken scratch had devolved even further, nothing more than scribbles.

“Aye, I’ll go back to bed in a sec. Just need to check over this last thing – “

  
“Can wait until the mornin’.”

  
“I mean… _yeah_ , but…ach, sod off Fergus, don’ need you nannying me.”

  
Fergus’s expression thinned as he stroked his chin. He sighed and strode forward, snatching the headphones from Campbell’s neck.

  
“Oi! Give those back!”

Campbell swung and grasped at the air, not even getting close.

  
“We’re getting you back to bed.”

  
Campbell gawked, then festered with a glare.

“I said I’m _fine_. Fine! Look at me, I am _fine_.”

He stood and wobbled, eyes fogging before clearing in a long second.

“S-See, _fine_. Come on, Fergus, m’not a kid. I can take care of myself and m’ _saying_ I’m fine.”

  
“Aye, maybe, but you don’t seem fine, Campbell.”

  
Campbell’s lips curled.

He pointedly turned away from Fergus and reached for the records, stumbling as he did.

He fell and clung to the shelves.

Two more records joined the Donovan on the ground.

“Ah, bloody hell – “

  
“I get you’re worried.” Fergus crossed his arms. “I do.”

  
“M’not _worried_ – “

  
“You’re working yourself to death.”

  
Campbell snorted and ignored him.

  
“You know m’right.”

  
“Aye…whatever, Fergus, ah know my – “

Campbell teetered again, stumbled as his head tipped forward.

He would’ve faceplanted if Fergus hadn’t stepped forward, barely catching him by the arms.

“– m’fine.” Campbell’s gaze dipped. “Thanks though.”

  
“Come on.”

Fergus didn’t wait for Campbell to argue, to spit angry words he’d regret later.

He helped Campbell to his feet and, after deciding that Campbell could hardly handle walking out of the station, much less to his room, hoisted him over his shoulders fireman style.

  
Surprisingly, Campbell didn’t protest, didn’t argue.

“…th’hell, like m’a sack of potatoes…” Was all he muttered in response.

  
Fergus grinned and made sure to exit carefully as to not concuss Campbell by accident.

He hit the light switch with his elbow and shut the door with his foot.

He turned, teetered a little at the extra weight, and started towards the rooms.

  
Campbell didn’t struggle, didn’t protest.

Didn’t say much of anything, really.

His head bobbed loosely with every step.

Fergus had wondered if he’d fallen asleep before he said,

“M’sorry, Fergus.”

He looked over, nodded.

“S’alright.”

  
“I’ve been a right bastard this last week…or how long…how long?”

  
Fergus thought, nodded.

“A while.”

“I just cannae go to Perth. What DJ gets big in _Perth_? An’ I know my dad will be back eventually. Want me to ship off there. Don’ got much time.”

Fergus heard him sniff.

“Ah finally figure out what I wanna do and even _that_ might go away soon. Can’ fake episodes forever you know. They’ll catch on.”

  
“You will succeed.” Fergus answered with a firm tone, his walk slowing. He glanced over his shoulder to meet Campbell’s gaze. “Know you will. You’re a great DJ.”

  
Campbell uttered an unintelligible noise, something that sounded appreciative, before he slacked again against his shoulder.

  
They crossed the corner towards the rooms, running face first into a nurse.

  
“Wha – Fergus! What are you doing – what’s wrong with Campbell??”

  
“He’s fine. Just needs sleep.” Fergus muttered.

Fergus crouched down, letting Campbell slip carefully back onto his feet, into the waiting hands of the nurse.

  
She slung Campbell’s arm around her neck, mumbling to Campbell short reassurances of how close his room was, as well as vague notes of getting a monitor for the next few weeks.

  
“Thank you, Fergus. You can head back to your room.” Noted the nurse with a smile.

  
Fergus nodded, assured that the nurse would make Campbell sleep, and returned to his room.

  
\--

  
Fergus had been hanging out with everyone else, sitting with another patient playing chess, when the latest song faded out.

  
“ _And that was ‘The Twist’ by Chubby Checker, here on The Campbell Bain Show, back on the air after a little holiday! Thanks again for listening but don’t turn that dial! Not that there_ is _a dial, but you get what I mean!_ ”

  
There was a small chuckle and a notable pause before Campbell continued.

  
“ _This next song is, well, dedicated to the folks that are there for you when it matters. The ones that kick you in the arse when you’re acting like a right idiot. Make sure you’re keeping yourself in check, healthy and whatnot –_ “

There was some whispering.

  
“ _– I’ve just been told I can’t say ‘arse’ on the air and…er, alright, well this is a diddy I’m dedicating to my friends who help me get by, here’s The Beatles!_ ”

  
As “With a Little Help from My Friends” started playing over the radio, Fergus gave a smile and even bobbed a bit to the song, humming it under his breath as he slid his pawn forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> get to write other characters yayyy


	25. Silenced

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day #24 - Forced Mutism
> 
> Crawly is found by Gabriel, who wants to ensure he never tempts again, after everything with Cain and Abel.
> 
> CW: blood, torture, graphic description of injury (mouth injury, it gross)

He had, at the time, described the events of Adam and Eve’s expulsion from Eden as ‘going down like a lead balloon’.

  
If he were asked about how everything with their _sons_ went, however, he’d compare it closer to a lead balloon _factory_.

  
Either way, he felt that, maybe, it’d be best to give the first human family some time to recover.

They’d have a lot to adjust to, now short their eldest children with a third on the way.

So, best he give them some space, to do…

  
…well, he supposed, nothing in particular.

  
There wasn’t much else on the planet at the time, not much to occupy oneself with.

He could explore the various animal societies, get to know them, he supposed.

But he felt neither the urge nor the motivation to do that.

All he knew was, for the first time in history, he felt dirty.

He needed to get clean.

  
He’d flown off to a secluded grove that grew near a vibrant river, hidden by a healthy sycamore tree and bushes with little flowers.

Wings tucked away, he approached the river and stumbled to his knees.

He sucked a deep breath as he jutted his hands forward, submerging them up to his elbows.

  
“ _Gah_! Ah, sh – that’s cold!” He hissed, scales rippling in response.

  
He gritted his teeth, peered at the running water and forced his hands together, scrubbing and rubbing his palms together.

As he did, he listened to the burbles, sputters and splashing of the water, stared into the clear river that sparkled in the sunlight.

In the active waters, he could see himself, all serpentine eyes and fiery hair.

The eyes…

His gaze lowered as he remembered, what felt like only yesterday, his reflection, amber irises around human pupils, red hair still flowing but less untamed.

The memory shattered and there he was, snake eyes staring back at him.

  
…

He held fast to the fact he didn’t _mean_ to fall.

Didn’t mean to become a demon.

Didn’t mean for…anything that happened to have happened.

  
“ _Well, what’s so wrong with knowing? What’s wrong with curiosity? In my mind, nothing. Maybe a little nibble and, if you don’t like it, don’t eat any more_.”

  
“ _Really, you grow such nice fruits. A colleague of mine admires them greatly. I don’t see why_ She _doesn’t appreciate them. Weird. Maybe talk to your brother about it? Could be an approach thing, or something._ ”

  
The results flashed before him.

Adam and Eve, wandering the sandy wilderness, the kindness of one angel the sole reason they survived and prospered.

Cain, stumbling with tears streaming fast, blood coating his hands and splattered against his face.

  
He shivered.

He bit the inside of his cheek.

He forced his hands to remain in the water, even as they grew numb and ached from the cold and scrubbed.

Only once his hands were raw and red, both from the scrubbing and the cold, did he withdraw and totter against the tree, sliding down onto his bottom.

He laid his head back, let his eyes flutter shut as he focused, solely, on his breathing.

Well, not solely.

He focused on his breathing _and_ forcing back those memories.

He hadn’t meant for any of that to happen.

He hadn’t.

  
_You’re a demon, of course you wanted this._

  
“Shut up, me.” Crawly muttered.

  
_It’s true. You are a demon now. Means you’re vile. Evil incarnate. Just what you do, might as well get used to it._

_  
_“Doesn’t mean I gotta like it.”

  
_No. But it’d be easier, you have to admit._

  
“Won’t.” Crawly sucked in a breath and dug his palms into his eyes. “Don’t care if it’s _easier_. This…this isn’t my style.”

He opened his eyes and gazed at the skies.

Against what would be common conception, Heaven and Hell weren’t exactly straight up or down, but even the demons and angels would forget that.

Even before it _became_ a common conception.

  
As he stared up, he wondered if, maybe, Mother had seen him, when She came down to admonish Cain.

Had She known it was his fault?

…could She hear him?

  
…

  
Demons aren’t supposed to atone.

They were no longer in her domain; not only was it degrading, but a hollow gesture.

She wouldn’t hear them no matter how hard they tried.

  
…supposedly.

  
That’s what he’d been told the first day after his fall.

That’s what the other demons said.

But Crawly had fallen for questioning things, and despite it, he still felt curious.

And, though he’d never admit it, he was hopeful.

  
He stared high into the skies, ignored the clouds gathering as he tried to remember Her; Her presence, Her face.

Tried to ignore the terror at how difficult it was to remember any of that.

“Mom,” He started, voice cracking at the word. He cleared his throat. “uh, hi. Hi, uh, I know we haven’t been on speaking terms since…well, you know.”

He licked his lips and swallowed.

“But I was hoping still, maybe, to chat. About everything with the humans. Adam, Eve, Cain…uh, well, you know. Just wanted to, erm, clear the air. Or something.”

He gestured out.

“Look, all the fruit stuff? The…debacle with Abel. That was my fault. Sorry. All my fault. Uh, so, was wondering if maybe you could, I don’t know…stop punishing the humans? Really, this wasn’t their fault, it was just _me_ being…well…”

The wind whistled, carried the rustling of leaves.

  
He stared up, but her light didn’t fill the sky like it did that fateful day.

  
“…yeah, I-I know this was a long shot. M’a demon now. Not…well, not welcome anymore. I get it.”

His arms crossed and he slacked against the tree.

“I get it. Just thought I’d try.”

His eyes dropped from the sky back to the ground, to the grasses around him.

His fingers curled around his arms.

“Was hoping, maybe, we could talk.”

His lips thinned, bore divots in his face as he sighed.

“Y-Yeah, forgot, you’re really busy. An’, er, yeah. That’s on me. Sorry, yeah. I’ll, ah, leave you be then. Another time.”

His nails dug into his skin.

“Another time.”

  
His heart, sinking lower than it already had, carried his weight as he slipped from sitting to laying beneath the tree, the sycamore’s leaves blanketing the sun’s rays.

His gaze fixed on the filtering light, on how it danced against the green leaves, sparkling like gemstones.

He sucked in a deep breath, let it carry some of the hardened grief out of his chest, tried to bring peace to a tensed mind.

He wouldn’t cry.

  
He let his eyes close and he partook in the one pastime he found to exist, even in these early times.

He slept.

\--

  
There were hands on his arms as he was yanked from sleep.

  
They tossed him forward then pulled him onto his knees, hands gripping his elbows and shoulders, pinning him where he stood.

The icy heat of grace flooded his body and he gasped, shuddered and seethed, his demonic powers slipping away from him.

He glanced to both sides of him.

  
Angels, neither of which he recognized.

  
“There you are! Crawly, is that right?”

  
And one voice he _definitely_ recognized.

  
His gaze slid forward as he stifled a groan.

“Archangel Gabriel,” He gave a thinned smile. “been a while. How’s it going?”

  
The Archangel Gabriel, adorned in long white robes bordered by gold and lavender, stalked forward, hands folded behind his back, that _smile_ across his face.

The smile, for a fleeting moment, turned to a grimace as he paced the ground in front of Crawly.

“If I were to be honest, Crawly? And, well, that _is_ part of the gig, right? Not that great.” He admitted. “The launch of humanity has been a bit messier than we hoped. I’m sure you’re aware of that.”

  
“There’s been a few bumps, yeah.”

  
“ _Bumps_! Ha, an understatement, but well, can’t say that you demons lost your senses of humor.” Gabriel barked a peal of laughter.

The other angels reciprocated lightly.

“But yeah,” Gabriel’s laughter ended, abruptly, with a glare. “it’s been bumpy. Really bumpy. And as we understand it, there’s really only one demon to blame.”

He threw his foot forward and planted it deep in Crawly’s stomach.

  
Crawly wheezed, tipped forward only to be righted by the angels.

  
“Can’t believe how much trouble _one_ of you is.” Gabriel muttered as he dusted off his sandal. “Little nuisance.”

  
“Sounds…like you’re nervous, Gabe.” Crawly forced a grin between grasps. “Can’t handle little ol’ me? Aw, how terrible for the poor _archangel_.”

  
Gabriel glowered, stared with disdain and abject disgust.

Only for a smile to split through as he chuckled.

“You’d like to think that don’t you, Crawly?” He answered as he pulled at his sleeves. “Like to think this is Heaven getting antsy. Scared. Because, what, your little stunts mean we’ve lost the big game?”

He snapped at the other angels, pointed firmly at Crawly.

  
One angel took over for the other, securing and planting Crawly in his spot alone, his celestial power pumping through and weakening the demon.

  
The other angel, now freed up, leaned down to pinch at the space behind Crawly’s molars, forcing his mouth to gape, preventing him from biting down or moving.

  
Crawly wriggled, struggled against the angels’ grips, tried to wrestle free to no avail.

His eyes flew back to Gabriel, who’d pulled a thin piece of metal from his robe.

“No, Crawly. You see, we’re the _good guys_. When things get tough, we don’t give up. Why? Because we know we’ll _win_ in the end, as we should. You can pull your little stunts, make things harder for us. But, well? It really doesn’t matter. We will _adapt_.”

He crouched in front of him, held the golden needle at Crawly’s eye level, the pointed end of the stick now apparent.

“Case in point. Seems we have a certain little serpent who can’t keep his mouth _shut_. _Has_ to corrupt Her creations wherever he goes, make trouble for us upstairs. Just a real pain in the _ass_. But we’ve already made up a plan.”

“See this? _This_ is blessed metal. Won’t kill you, no, what point would that make? But it will make it really, _really_ hard to spill your temptations to our poor humans. Or, well, do much _talking_ at all.”

He hissed, grimaced with feigned sympathy.

“I mean it. It’s not going to be fun, buddy.”

  
Crawly’s pupils, fully dilated, flicked to Gabriel as his fear swelled to the forefront.

“S-Seems…seems a bit barbaric, don’t you think? Y-You’re gonna…gonna – “

  
“Shh.” Gabriel pressed a finger against his lips. He eyes averted. “Well, maybe I shouldn’t shush you. Not like you’ll be doing much talking soon.”

  
“ _P-Please_.” Crawly uttered, eyes crinkling against oncoming tears. “Come on, I-I don’t beg but I-I’m begging you _now_. I mean it, I’ll lay off. No more temptations, nothing of the sort. B-Be a harmless demon, just _please_ – “

  
Gabriel winced.

“Sorry, champ. Too little, too late.”

And he surged forward with the metal.

  
With Crawly’s mouth wrenched open, he aimed the stick…the _needle_ at his tongue.

It only took a single, deft motion for him to pierce the blessed metal through Crawly’s reptilian tongue.

And it only took that single motion for the metal’s holiness to _surge_ , to spread like electric spiderwebs through every synapse, every bud, every cell in Crawly’s tongue as well as the rest of his mouth.

  
He shrieked, eyes pinned wide, utterly helpless as he thrashed and fought, unable to free himself to try and pry the needle from his tongue.

  
Its power laced onward, spreading through his mouth and down his throat, finding his voice box and silencing him with an abrupt _snap_.

He could still feel it, the mechanisms of his larynx trying to resonate, to vocalize the screams and curses that wanted to roll forward, a pitiful attempt to nullify the pain he was experiencing.

But despite it still functioning, nothing came out.

Only the smallest gurgle, only the sounds that required none of his own voice.

He’d, effectively, been silenced.

  
And that only made Crawly sob harder.

  
He barely noticed as Gabriel directed his own holy power towards the needle, soldering the two ends into a tight band around one side of his tongue.

  
Gabriel sat back, admired his work with a smile and a firm nod.

“There we are. Much better, don’t you think?”

  
Crawly tried to answer, tried to shoot a disparaging remark.

But nothing came forth.

Nothing would ever _again_ come forth.

He could only tremble and cry.

  
Gabriel’s pleased smile curdled, finger tapping against his lips.

He snapped and another needle appeared in his hands.

“Sorry.” He chuckled with a headshake. “I just…I _know_ it’s unnecessary, but I can’t stand the lack of symmetry.”

  
The angel at his mouth squeezed again, forced it open as Gabriel dove in with the second needle, his mind whiting out the procedure.

  
At the end of it all, the two angels let him go, allowed Crawly to collapse to the ground, curling in on himself and ducking his head low.

  
“There we are. No more temptations for you. Problem solved.” Gabriel clapped his hands together, dusting off the grime from his work.

  
They didn’t address Crawly again before thunder roared and, in a flash of light, Gabriel and the two angels were gone.

  
Leaving Crawly at the same green glade, the one he’d sought refuge in mere hours earlier, now nothing more than a taunting contrast against the pain still rocketing through him.

He couldn’t move, despite needing to.

He couldn’t stay here.

What if Gabriel changed his mind?

What if more angels came down, ready to lay out their frustrations over a few bad centuries on the most available demon?

  
They’d stolen his voice; wasn’t that enough?

Something told him that no, it’d never be enough.

  
Body trembling, he let go of his human form, shifted into something that he could handle, something less arduous to maintain.

He was far smaller than he’d been in Eden, but that didn’t bother him.

All that mattered was he was able to hide.

  
Which he did, by slithering under a nearby bush, curling into himself deep in the cool shadows.

  
Thanking the stars that snakes didn’t have tear ducts.

Otherwise, that’d be all he’d do.

  
\--

  
_Sometime later._

  
Given how rough it’d been for Adam and Eve lately, Aziraphale figured he’d make himself useful.

  
The sheep were now untended to; as an angel, _surely_ caring for Her creatures should be second nature.

  
He was wrong.

  
Staff in hand, he sighed as he tried to redirect a cluster of sheep, all grazing at a patchy spot away from the flock.

“Please, dear sheep, can you rejoin your friends? I’d hate for any of you to get eaten, and there are certainly wolves around the wilds.” He coaxed with a forced smile.

  
The sheep, once more, paid him no mind, not even as he pushed with the end of his staff.

They simply lowered their heads and continued to graze.

“How very rude.” Aziraphale muttered as he nudged once more, only one sheep turning away just to graze a few inches off.

He snapped and the sheep lifted their heads and trotted back to the flock.

“There we are. Much better.” He nodded as he trailed behind them, returning to the flock of several dozen.

  
He swam through the sea of wool, stepped careful to avoid sheep pat and the few lambs that clung to their mothers.

He leaned down to pat the head of one lamb, who followed him dutifully.

“Alright, Anthony, let’s see here.” Aziraphale surveyed the massive flock, counting both aloud and in his head, careful not to double count.

He frowned, pursed his lips.

“We’re still missing three.”

He glanced down at the lamb.

“Now where could they have gone? Might you know?”

  
Anthony bleated and chewed at his robe.

  
“Hmm, I suppose not.” Aziraphale tapped at his chin.

  
He pulled some grain from his pocket and offered it to Anthony, who accepted with relish.

  
“Now, if I were a sheep like yourself, where would I go?” Aziraphale looked about the area, past the grazing fields towards the distance where a few trees grew.

He remembered, faintly, that Adam had mentioned a river.

He glanced over at the crowded watering hole.

“Hm, well that’s a start.” He glanced down at the lamb. “Would you like to keep me company, Anthony?”

  
The lamb chewed its feed, stared at Aziraphale before trotting off, back to its mom.

  
“Very well. Another time then.” Aziraphale slipped the remaining feed into his pocket, wiped his hand clean, and hiked onward towards the running river.

Past the rocks and near a serene grove, Aziraphale took the time to crouch over and wash his hands, hissing a moment at the frigid water.

He patted his hands dry against his robe, standing upright just as something white ran past him, bleating fearfully.

“Oh! Oh dear, there’s one.” Aziraphale spun on his heel and watched the first sheep return to the flock.

There was more bleating in the grove, past a large sycamore tree.

Aziraphale gripped his staff and dove into the brush.

“Halt there, fiend!” He cried, feeling a flush of embarrassment after the fact.

  
The remaining two sheep formed a v around the threat, their feet stamping, and ears pinned back.

At the center of the v: a snake, long and black, that stood tall and bared its fangs.

It struck at one ram’s ankles, causing the sheep to jump back.

“That’s enough!” Aziraphale struck between the sheep and serpent with his staff, flaring his holy light just enough to startle the sheep back to the flock.

  
The snake also recoiled, remained frozen with its head high, its yellow eyes fixed on Aziraphale’s.

  
Yellow eyes…

Aziraphale’s glare faded and he lifted his staff away.

“I say,” He started. “I believe we know each other. You’re the demon from Eden, aren’t you?”

  
The snake fell back onto its belly and slithered under a bush.

  
“Hey! Wait just a moment! Why were you tormenting my sheep?” Aziraphale chased after it.

His toes brushed the bottom of the bush as he maneuvered some of the shade with his staff.

  
At this, the snake struck out, nipping his big toe.

  
“Ow! You…you nasty thing!” Aziraphale yelped as he leapt away.

  
The snake poked its head out, opening its maw enough to bare its teeth, pupils dilating.

  
“Hmph, suppose I shouldn’t be shocked. You are a demon, after all. But that was quite unnecessary all the same!” Hmph-ed Aziraphale as he knelt over, rubbing the shallow nip.

  
The snake curled back, eying Aziraphale warily as it flicked its tongue out.

The tongue, for a moment, glittered.

  
Aziraphale’s brow furrowed as he stared, cocked his head to the side.

Watched.

  
The snake flicked its tongue again and, once more, it glimmered.

  
“I dare say,” Aziraphale started. “I’ve never seen a snake’s tongue _sparkle_.”

  
The snake visibly froze and…well, Aziraphale was not sure if all snakes could shiver, but this one certainly could.

It snapped back into its den, only its eyes visible amidst the shade.

  
Aziraphale, however, only leaned in, poked his head through the first layer of leaves.

“Please…Crawly, isn’t it?” He spoke in a softer tone. “I can see you’re afraid. You may lie but, well, as an angel I can tell. Something must be the matter.”

He glanced up to the heavens, waited, before speaking again.

“And…well, I suppose I do owe you. You didn’t tell my management about my, erm, misplaced sword. Perhaps I could help you and…well, we would be even, wouldn’t we? No one in debt to anyone and we could go our separate ways. Start with a fresh slate.”

  
The snake waited, eyes trained on Aziraphale, as it were considering the offer, pupils shrinking back once more.

After minutes of waiting, eventually Crawly slithered his way out, slinking past Aziraphale and towards the riverbed.

Aziraphale stood and turned, just in time to see Crawly shift back into his human-shaped form, crouched low and back to him.

“There we are.” Aziraphale approached with a steady, outstretched hand and slow pace, eyes fixed on the demon for any sign of betrayal. “Now, I’m sorry to ask, but may I see your tongue again?”

  
Crawly’s shoulders raised, stiffened with the rest of his body, as he tucked his face into his arms and sat.

He shook his head with fervent anxiousness and remained like a stone.

  
“Well, I can’t quite help you if I can’t see what’s wrong.” Tutted Aziraphale. “Now, I am willing to be patient, but I also don’t have long. The sheep need me to tend to them.”

As the seconds passed and Crawly made no attempt to move, his stern expression softened.

“…It cannot be so terrible, can it?” He asked as he crouched to Crawly’s level. “Please, may I see? Just for a moment.”

  
Crawly hesitated, one golden eye poked visible between his sleeves, fixed on Aziraphale with nervous determination.

Eventually, in a rickety fashion more akin to wood bending, he lifted his head and met Aziraphale’s gaze.

Even before he revealed his tongue, the demon, abjectly, looked miserable.

His eyes were blotchy and red, swelled from constant crying.

At this proximity, Aziraphale spotted some blistering near his lips in odd, Lichtenburg streaks.

His jaw rattled, trembled as he forced his mouth open, the very act bringing fresh tears to his eyes.

  
Aziraphale reeled, gasped aloud despite his best efforts, and could feel his stomach churn.

  
The damage was immeasurable, horrifying to an extent that words failed him.

Everything, from Crawly’s tongue, to his inner cheeks, to what was visible of his throat, were _destroyed_.

Burnt and charred, much of the tissue blackened, with the less affected still a bright, angry red, oozing fresh blood.

Some of his teeth had burned away too, mostly the back molars, which jutted in odd shapes that couldn’t possibly be comfortable.

The tongue, however, was a whole other nightmare.

It could barely be called a tongue it was so blackened.

The texture could only be described as flaky and chalky, pieces missing, and the tissue grayed and decaying.

Cutting through the horror was a gold band of sort, still shining and glossy, wrapped around the middle of what remained of the tongue.

It absolutely radiated holy energy.

  
Aziraphale clapped a hand over his mouth to prevent whatever wanted to spill out from doing so, his own eyes watering in horror.

  
Crawly’s own face twisted tight, tears running fast as his whole body shook.

“I…I don’t – “Aziraphale stuttered, eyes flicking back and forth from Crawly to the sky, mind scrambling to understand _what_ , _how_ , and _why_.

He drew a sharp, nasal inhale as he tried to pull his eyes away from the horror, only to find the image imprinted on his mind.

“T-That metal is blessed. It’s _blessed_ , how…did the humans -?”

  
Crawly shook his head, silently sobbing.

  
“An…an _angel_ – “Aziraphale’s own shoulders quaked as he shook his head. “– b-b-but why? Why, why, _why_ would they do this…to anyone? This…this is – “

  
His gaze returned to Crawly, towards the demon that shook and wept so horribly, so painfully, who drooped in Aziraphale’s presence and seemed so abjectly broken.

His eyes flitted to the heavens once more.

A frown fitted on his face, even as his lip shivered.

He reached forward and snatched up Crawly’s wrist.

“Over here. Quick. In the shade.” He hushed as he pulled him along.

  
Resting under the shade of the sycamore tree, Aziraphale pressed both himself and Crawly as flat against the tree’s trunk as possible, his eyes still warily watching the sky.

He waited.

Waited.

Waited.

…

He soon drew a breath and fell low again with Crawly.

“Alright, we’ll have to be quick. But I can’t in good conscience _leave you_ like this.”

  
Crawly’s eyes widened, perhaps in shock, perhaps in relief.

Perhaps both.

More tears cascaded down.

  
Aziraphale gave a weak smile and wiped them away.

“N-Now, none of that. It’ll be okay very soon.”

His gaze lowered, sobered.

“I-I think I can de-consecrate the metal. That should stop the burning and…well, everything. Do you think you could then miracle away the ring?”

  
Crawly hiccupped, thought, before giving a weak nod.

  
“Right, good.” Aziraphale’s lips thinned as he surveyed Crawly, considered how to go about healing. “Forgive me. This is my first time doing this.”

His uncertain hands lifted and moved towards Crawly’s face.

  
Crawly, in return, recoiled.

  
“You don’t need to show your tongue.” Aziraphale assured. “I-I’m thinking I might be able to do it from the outside, as it were. I-I’m afraid I’ll have to touch you though.”

Crawly stared, considered.

Then assented.

  
Aziraphale cupped Crawly’s cheeks, thumbs against his cheekbones, aware that even the slightest touch seemed to pull a pained wince from the demon.

His eyes fluttered shut and he felt through the air, looked for the root of the holy energy, finding it in the knot that bound the two pieces of metal.

He prodded the celestial power only to be rebuffed, the power surging and seething at his presence, forcing his eyes open.

It was so much.

_Too_ much holiness.

Too much for any average angel.

There were few who could accomplish this and that thought sunk Aziraphale’s heart.

  
This was the work of an _archangel_ , no doubt about it.

  
His associates, his _superiors_ , had done this to Crawly, for reasons that escaped him.

  
And so soon after the war, the one that determined the lines between Heaven and –

  
He shook his head; he couldn’t go there.

  
There’d be time to mull on that later.

  
His eyes closed once more, and he approached the rooted power which laid guarded and wary.

He let his own power unravel, wind through the metal and poke at the seed, whispering words in Enochian.

The blessing buckled, loosening to allow his own words to slip through, urging the energy to fade, telling it that its job was finished.

The blessing listened and, like cinders, faded into nothingness, the metal nothing more than normal gold.

Aziraphale’s eyes shot open and he gasped a long, deep breath, his arms trembling as he finally released Crawly.

Panting, he met his eyes, nodded a sweat-stained brow.

“T-There. That should be better, yes?”

  
Crawly, however, seemed uncertain.

He felt at his lips and hissed.

He snapped his fingers and seemed at a loss of whatever had, or hadn’t, happened.

He snapped again and a flicker of demonic energy pulsed through the air.

He still touched his jaw with the lightest of touches.

  
Aziraphale watched, mouth stuck in a thin line.

“Not much better then?” He noted.

  
Crawly gave him a side look, nothing nasty but not assuring either, before averting his gaze again.

  
“I can’t heal you, I’m afraid.” Aziraphale blurted before he fished at the space between them. “But er, I could, um…I could dampen your senses. Until you heal, of course. At least relieve _some_ of your pain.”

  
Crawly shot him a look that bore a single, unsaid question.

_Why_?

  
Aziraphale’s face fell.

Why indeed.

He wondered too.

He wasn’t supposed to take pity on a demon, but this wasn’t the first time.

His mind flicked back to Eden’s wall and the first rainy day.

  
“Well…because I’d like to. I suppose.” Aziraphale started with uncertain voice. “And, though it’s out of turn and _completely_ off record – “

  
Crawly gave a single nod.

  
“– I may not know _why_ they did this to you, but it’s undeserved.”

Aziraphale’s eyes darkened as he clarified,

“ _No one_ deserves this.”

  
Crawly’s eyes glistened, filled with an emotion that Aziraphale couldn’t and definitely would not name, but it was there all the same.

  
At this, Aziraphale cleared his throat and snapped his fingers.

  
Crowley shuddered, the holy energy surging through him again, but with less ferocity.

Rather, it was closer to a gentle hug, reassuring words that calmed his body and nearly tipped him over into new tears.

He didn’t cry, but he still shook, eyes fishing around for some response, something to offer.

  
Aziraphale watched, for a moment feeling something within him he couldn’t name.

Pity? No.

Sympathy? Possibly.

Concern and care?

…

He stood and dusted off his robe.

“Regardless, best rest up. Not _here_ , of course, but elsewhere. Near another river, I can’t imagine your throat feels good.”

He snapped and a wooden cup appeared in his hand.

“To drink with. It’s a cup.”

Crawly frowned and gave him a look.

  
“Right…yes. I’ll be on my way then.”

Aziraphale straightened his robe as he felt the demon’s eyes burn a hole through his back.

As he was about to pass through the bushes, he lingered.

He glanced back and turned on his heel.

“Do be careful now, Crawly.”

  
Crawly gave a nod and stood, shakily, to his feet.

  
Aziraphale turned away once more, returning to his flock.

  
As he walked, he heard large wings beating, as well as a shadow pass overhead, but he gave it no mind.

He was far more occupied with the wondering of _what next_ now that he freed a demon from a heavenly punishment.

Would they come for him?

Would _he_ be punished next?

He ended up worrying his sleeve an inch shorter with his thinking.

  
The worrying ended up for nothing; no meeting was called for his miracle and the incident was never brought up again.

Not even when he next encountered Crawly some thousand years later at the ark, fully healed from his ordeal.

Things had, for the most part, fell back to a sameness.

He thought, perhaps, that Crawly seemed to regard him with more friendliness, wanted to linger close to him and was even more talkative than back in Eden.

Asked questions Aziraphale might’ve tried not to think about.

  
Perhaps he even, secretly, appreciated that.

  
And was glad to see this strange demon alright, better, and not suffering like last time.

  
But that, of course, would be ridiculous.

  
They were an angel and a demon.

  
To be concerned for one another was ridiculous and Aziraphale, in his mind, was not ridiculous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aziraphale dont you lie you care


	26. Eye for an Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 25 - Ringing Ears
> 
> Hardy and Ellie know that just because justice is served, it doesn't mean everyone's happy. They are given a painful reminder after arresting a particularly vile suspect.
> 
> CW: body trauma, referenced domestic terrorism, survivor's guilt, blood, loss of body part, trauma

Despite the questions, despite the evidence levied against him, their suspect’s expression hadn’t faltered, hadn’t wavered.

  
His name: Jeremy Ryder, known as “Ace,” to his mates.

Known by some as a member of Wolfsbane, a self-named group of violent criminal types.

His head was shaved bald, a piercing on his lip accentuated by his smirk.

He wore a ratty, leather jacket.

He sat back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the detectives with amusement rather than anxiety.

He was in his early thirties but looked his early twenties and had the rap sheet of a criminal twice his age.

He had been chewing gum through much of the interview.

  
Hardy leaned forward, tapping his pen against the desk as he slid some photos forward.

“I’m showing the suspect Evidence 48-A, screenshots of CCTV footage recovered from the crime scene.” Hardy stated for the record as his eyes flitted to Jeremy. “Can you confirm that the individual in the photos, is you?”

  
Jeremy smacked his gum and leaned forward, eyebrows raised as he looked it over again, and again, and again, eyes scanning visibly.

“Yup.”

  
“And the video,” Ellie added. “was taken the same night that Sunset Daycare was bombed.”

  
Jeremy seemed unfazed.

  
“Meaning that you confirm that you were _present_ , barely ten minutes before the daycare was destroyed.” Said Hardy.

  
“Yup.”

  
Hardy leaned back, glanced at his partner for a moment.

He could see that despite her firm front, the unwavering persona of a hardened detective she _needed_ during interrogations, she was growing weary.

He couldn’t blame her.

They’d received nothing but the same, mono-syllabic responses for the last hour, their suspect seeming unfazed by any of their questions, any of the evidence presented.

No remorse, no guilt, nothing.

And knowing Ellie, he knew how much that _ate_ at her.

Worse than it ate at him, somehow.

Best to wrap this up soon.

“I don’t know,” He sighed as he glowered at Jeremy. “if you’re comprehending the magnitude of these charges, Jeremy.”

  
“It’s Ace.”

Ah, finally.

More than one word.

“ _Ace_.” Hardy forced. “You’ve confirmed to us that you’re at least one of the individuals responsible for bombing a populated daycare. You’re responsible for the deaths of five people including three children.”

  
“Yup.”

  
Hardy blinked, stared at their culprit with a strained expression.

“A bit surprised then at the lack of emotion, Ace.” Hardy continued. “Unless we’re misreading you?”

  
Jeremy pouted and shrugged.

  
“You don’t feel a thing.” Ellie concluded, eyes simmering with hatred. “Not an ounce of sympathy for the families you’ve broken, the _lives_ you stole. No remorse.”

  
“Terrible they died.” Jeremy answered. “But it wasn’t anything personal. Sucks, but we all do eventually.”

  
Hardy reached over and grabbed Ellie’s arm, gaze it a warning squeeze, as he predicted the kick of her leg, the barely bitten back desire to pummel the creep to a pulp.

  
“You realize what these charges mean though, right?” Hardy took over. “Might not feel anything for the victims, but if you’re found guilty, just one charge would be enough to land you in prison for life.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“You’re young, have your life ahead of you. Doesn’t _that_ startle you even a bit? No chance to, say, buy a house? Settle down? Go on holiday?”

  
Jeremy, at that moment, wavered a little.

The barest slip of his smirk, an aversion of his gaze.

“I’m not worried.” He finally answered.

His gaze flitted back.

“I’d say _you two_ should be more worried.” He grinned. “Don’t want to mess up another conviction, do you _detectives_?”

  
Ellie flared, face growing white as she gripped the desk.

Hardy’s patience, too, was waning.

“Think,” He said through gritted teeth. “it might be best to take a recess.”

He reached for the recorder.

“Interview paused. 3:50 p.m.”

Clicked the button.

  
He stood, cleared his throat, waited for Ellie to follow.

  
They turned with pointed sharpness and stalked out of the room, leaving their culprit with two PCs for company.

They waited until they were around a corner, a safe distance from the room, before they let the breath they’d both held escape, their detective fronts shattering.

  
“ _Christ_.” Ellie hissed as she turned and slammed her fist against a wall. “T-The bastard…the _bastard_ – “

  
“He’s a peach.” Grunted Hardy as he watched.

  
“Peach, right, a peach. I – “Ellie grasped her forehead, pressed the hair from her face. “– _shit_. Shit, shit, _shit_.”

  
“Deep breath, Miller.”

  
“Oh, like that’ll do any good.”

  
“Just trying to help.”

  
“Well, stop. I don’t want – “The tension within Ellie, in a split moment, snapped, and she slumped against the wall, hand buried in her face. “– I’ll be fine.”

  
Hardy’s expression softened and he looked over with eyes brimming with sympathy.

“Will you?”

  
“ _No_.” She admitted in a sigh. Her face lifted from her hands as she wrapped her arms around herself. “Sorry, sir.”

  
“You don’t need to call me that anymore.” Hardy sighed himself as he leaned against the wall, next to her, hands in his pockets.

  
Ellie’s eyes, adrift across the floor, remained there as she rocked side to side, hands tucked into her armpits.

She sniffed, wiped her nose on her sleeve.

“I hate these cases.” Her eyes glimmered with tears as she glared, face tensed. “Why…why _kids_? Why’s it got to be kids?”

  
Hardy could only watch, observe his partner with patience against questions he couldn’t answer even if he dared.

Or more, he _could_ , but no answer would help right now.

Her voice tightened as she lifted her head.

“See it, on next review, I’m tossing all cases like this to _Hartford_. I’m done. No more child murderers I can’t – “

Her head drooped again as her composure crumbled.

  
“You’d really let _Hartford_ lead a murder case?”

  
“No. God no.” Ellie muttered as she sharply inhaled. “Just tired of it being _us_ cleaning up the shite. Had enough of dead…dead _babies_.”

She hid her eyes away, wouldn’t let Hardy see her as she said,

“They were _babies_ , Hardy. Barely three, four. Who’d even _think_ to do such a thing? Who’d kill – “

She swept at her eyes, turned enough towards Hardy that he could see her fruitless fight against tears.

“Damnit…oh, _damnit_ , stop. Can’t go back in a mess.”

  
“We’ve got time.” Hardy noted as he considered, his hand hovering between them, a hug.

Or a pat on the shoulder.

Something.

  
He couldn’t consider before Miller pulled away, gave him a warning look.

  
“Sorry.” He mumbled as he turned away. “Thought it might help.”

  
“It _doesn’t_.” She asserted. “Not from you.”

  
“Yup. I know.”

  
He felt her eyes against his side, felt the fire in them simmer down as the floor creaked behind him.

“I keep thinking about Fred.” She admitted. “Keep seeing him among the victims. About their age.”

He could feel her trembling.

“If it weren’t for Luce…or my dad, I might’ve _sent_ him to that daycare. And then what?”

He turned towards Ellie as her nails dug into her arms, head turned away.

“I’d have sent him to his death. Wouldn’t have known it.”

Her eyes fell shut.

“You think that’s what the parents are thinking? Blaming themselves for all this?”

She gritted her teeth.

“And the piece of shit _actually_ responsible doesn’t feel a thing. _Smiles_. He _fucking_ smiles, Hardy, I don’t get it – “

  
“Because you’re a good person, Miller.”

He eyed the hallway towards the interrogation rooms.

“He isn’t.”

She shudders, dabs at her eyes to avoid her mascara, sniffs.

“You think his confidence” She starts. “might just be because he’s, what, sociopathic?”

  
“Might be. It wouldn’t be out of character.”

  
“I’m thinking about our research. The previous arrest warrants and trial results.” Her pupils shrunk as the thoughts collided together. “At least one confirmed case of juror intimidation.”

Her brow furrowed, deep in concentration around the collided thoughts, leaping to the next thread and then -

Her gaze snapped to Hardy.

“Hardy, he might have something planned.”

  
“More intimidation?”

  
“I don’t know.” She admitted. “But his mates. They’re thick as thieves and with the previous history…”

She shook her head.

“ _No one_ in my history of police work has looked _this_ confident when we have such substantial evidence. _No one_. Not unless they know something we don’t.”

  
“Same for mine.” Hardy’s own face paled. “Shit. If you’re right, Miller – “

  
“Need to talk with Jenkinson.” Ellie started to paw through her purse. “A-And I need to make sure – “

She stamped her foot, sighed raggedly.

“Left my damn _mobile_ in my car.”

  
“I’ll get it.” Offered Hardy as he dug into her purse.

“I could go – what the hell, stop that! You just dig into a lady’s purse, what’s wrong with you??”

  
“I need your keys, Miller.”

  
“You could’ve asked!”

  
“This was faster.” He spun the ring around his finger. “Got them.”

  
She stared at him like he was from another planet (a hypothesis never fully discarded) as he strode away.

  
“You want a chocolate too?” He asked.

  
“I don’t have – “

  
“You do, in your glove compartment. Emergency stash.”

  
“Have you been rifling through my things?! The hell is wrong with you?!”

  
“Do you _want_ one or not?” He turned as his pace slowed.

  
“ _No_. Just for that, no.” She glared.

  
“You sure?”

  
“ _Yes_ , and if you ask again, I will piss in a cup and throw it at you.”

  
“Always you and the piss – “

  
“ _Go_.” She bit out as she stormed away. “Bloody wanker.”

  
“Insubordination, Miller!”

  
She seethed, ready to turn on her heel and make good on her promise but fought the urge as she beelined towards Jenkinson’s office, hating that, somehow, she kept putting up with such a knob of a boss.

  
\--

He turned the keys in his hands as he exited, crossed the threshold from station to, well, the rest of the world.

The rest of the world.

The one that continued despite how much, how desperately it felt like it should not.

At least, that’s how Hardy felt.

  
It was times like that that he wished he still smoked.

It might kill him, _would_ kill him.

But it was something else to think about, something immediate.

Something one could not ignore because it was tactile and there, something that could burn if left unattended, something with scent and taste.

Something he controlled.

  
…

He stood, for a moment, on the station’s steps, allowing the coastal air to pass over him.

A couple walked past, pushing a stroller, cooing over their child.

The dad shook a rattle in their face.

The mother made rocket noises and short cheers as they passed over a sidewalk gap.

  
He thought about how, soon enough, that child would be three or four.

Old enough for daycare.

  
“ _And then what?_ ”

  
Then what, indeed.

He didn’t know.

  
He scuffed his shoes, kept his eyes low to deter passing conversation or even greetings, tried to fight off the faces of the dead.

They passed and were replaced by Ellie’s concerns.

Her warning.

Which was only a slight improvement.

  
He felt she was insinuating the same thoughts that passed through his mind, the reason why she wanted her mobile because they _must_ be worried about the same thing.

They were in danger.

Their _families_ were in danger.

To what degree, they didn’t know.

But they were in danger.

He kicked himself for not considering it, not immediately ordering back up and protection at their houses as soon as Jeremy sauntered in with that _smirk_ on his face.

That self-assurance, that bravado, that seeming disregard for future consequences or his impact on others.

He had chalked it up to sociopathy or psychopathy.

He hadn’t considered that Jeremy might’ve set up his own settlement, his own revenge for…

  
Well, whatever he considered this.

Injustice?

Humiliation?

Probably the latter, if Hardy had an inkling on gang mentality.

  
He had looked a little surprised when they came knocking at his door with an arrest warrant.

  
Had he really thought he could slip past, unnoticed, uncaught, to do this again?

  
Was he really so brazen?

  
Hardy sucked in a sharp breath, stilled his nerves.

Decided that, despite Ellie’s insistence, he’d bring her a chocolate.

Perhaps pilfer himself one too.

  
He reached the car lot, reached the specified spaces for employees and Ellie’s spot in particular.

He reached out with the fob and clicked the unlock button.

  
…

  
There had been a sound.

A concussive blast, one that transcends pure sound.

It had transcended into tangibility.

Rocked cars.

Quaked the earth.

Threw _him_ back.

  
Pulsed through and hit his eardrums with a noise, ear and head-splitting, before nothing but a piercing ring.

  
The ringing remained, slicing through and muddling with the ache, the excruciating pain that echoed through his skull, laced down through his torso and spine.

  
He saw nothing but red.

Nothing but red in half his vision, the other blurring to incomprehensibility.

He gathered what he could.

  
There was light, orange and red, licking and moving and _fire_.

There was a fire.

  
The ground beneath him crackled with what little movement he made.

The cement was sparkling, diamond crusted, almost beautiful.

He wanted to brush his hands through it.

But his hands were not available.

Please leave a message at the tone.

  
He was warm, unseasonably warm, but only somewhere around his head and face.

The warmth built with passing seconds and felt wet, _why_ was it wet?

His vision was tilting fading with an increasing gray-blackness that encroached what he could see.

He didn’t care, suddenly, why he was warm.

Why there was fire.

Why he couldn’t move.

  
Couldn’t care at all, really.

  
He may have heard a shout, a scream, for something.

Ambulance?

Might be.

He couldn’t tell.

  
Everything went black before then.

  
\--

  
When he woke again, everything, _everything_ ached.

  
He didn’t necessarily feel pain but, more, an overwhelming soreness, an unwillingness to move.

Even the lifting of a finger, or the opening of his eyes, felt elephantine in effort.

But he did.

Something told him he should wake up.

  
When he did, bright, sterile lighting was what greeted him.

  
He knew that lighting all too well.

  
He blinked, stared at the ceiling.

The lights were smaller.

Had they shrunk the lights?

…no.

No, that wasn’t it.

  
He lifted a hand which, only then, did he realize was being held.

  
There was shifting, movement at his right, and a person crossed into view.

Half of them did.

He frowned; what was with his vision?

He started to reach again towards his face.

  
“Hardy.”

  
He froze, only then comprehending _who_ came into view.

  
Ellie stared at him, brow knotted with worry, lip parted as her eyes ran laps up and down his bed.

  
“Miller,” His voice was so hoarse, so rough, he paused. “what – where – what happened?”

  
“You don’t remember.” It was less a question than clarification. Her lips drew thin and worried. “Doctor was worried about that. Took a nasty blow to the head.”

  
“Wh – What _happened_ , Miller?” He repeated, trying to sit up but receiving a jolt of pain in response.

His head snapped about, taking in the room, taking only half at a time.

The other was only black.

His heart began to race.

His fingers finally met the area around his right eye, jerking back as they met textured dressing.

He started to pull the dressing loose.

  
“Ah – don’t, _don’t_ , sir.” Ellie snatched his wrist, forced him to meet her gaze as her mouth creased. “There was an incident at the station. An attack. No one else was hurt but – “

  
“Miller, _what_ …why…w-why…” Hardy’s face drained of blood, limbs shaking in earnest as the pieces fell together.

His mouth snapped into a pained grimace, his uncovered eye watering.

  
“We found you, in the parking lot.” Ellie continued, voice cracking as her expression remained stable. “We got you to hospital as soon as we could. T-They said concussion likely, er, some bruising. Minor lacerations with a larger one around the skull, but…”

She wetted her lips, her own face growing white as her eyes drifted shut, squeezing as if to drive away a memory.

“…t-there was a glass shard. Embedded. They couldn’t save your eye.”

Hardy had figured it out.

Not the specifics, but the end result.

It didn’t make _hearing_ it any easier.

  
At the last five words, he choked, uttered a weak whine and whimper that felt as alien to him as it must’ve sounded to Ellie.

He sat there, partially hunched over, arms limp at his side, yet didn’t cry.

He couldn’t.

His gaze flitted to Ellie for only a moment, searching her for anything, _anything_.

Anything to contradict what he heard because, _no_ , this hadn’t happened.

  
All he received was Ellie’s own front shattering, dissipating as her tears slipped free.

“I’m sorry.”

  
His vision blurred over as his tears built, Ellie turned into a murky smudge as he curled into himself, one hand buried in his hair as he forwent his pride.

He felt that of anyone, Ellie wouldn’t judge him for this moment, a time he’d let himself be so vulnerable, so hurt.

An ugly, blubbering noise forced its way free and he hid his face further.

  
“I’m sorry.” She repeated, voice reedier than before.

  
A door slammed open and there were footsteps.

  
“ _Dad_.”

  
His face snapped over, gaze meeting his new visitor.

He wiped his eye free of what tears he had and lifted his head.

“Daiz.” He croaked.

  
Daisy hadn’t tried to put up a front like Ellie.

He supposed she didn’t have to.

But this wasn’t much better.

He’d pay a million pounds to _never_ see his daughter like this again.

  
Her face was reddened, already stained with tears, which began anew as soon as they met eyes.

Her hand flew up, covered her mouth as she sobbed.

  
“Oh n-no. No, Daiz, come here.” He ushered.

  
“D-Dad, your eye – “

  
A dry sob rolled up his throat.

He choked on it and nodded.

  
She ran the rest of the gap, threw herself into his arms.

  
He returned her hug, wrapped his arms around his daughter and rocked her, clung to her like a drowning man to a life preserver.

She sobbed openly, wept into his shoulder, tried to speak but only managed pained syllables and other noises.

  
“It’s okay. It’s okay.” Hardy hushed, his own tears slipping free.

  
“It’s _not_ , Dad.” Daisy bit out before she devolved back into tears. “It’s not.”

  
Hardy, slowly, shook his head.

Because she was right.

  
He remained attentive, fully focused on his daughter, for minutes.

At some point, however, his gaze drifted tiredly to Ellie.

  
From her place at the foot of his bed, she stiffened.

Took in his gaze not with anger, like earlier, but caution.

  
“O-Only if you’re okay with it.”

  
Her lips drew thin, fresh tears forming as she stepped forward.

  
One arm released Daisy as Ellie took her spot at his side, chin resting atop his head as she wrapped her arms around them both.

She heard his breath hitch, his face hidden but she knew he’d started crying.

She couldn’t blame him.

She let her eyes close as they sat there, all together, letting all the pain of the day pass through, wash over them.

  
\--

  
She walked out onto the balcony; orange anorak zipped up tight.

Undid her ponytail and let her curls fly loose, uncaring of the future untangling she’d have to do.

The tightness of the tie gave her a headache, something she didn’t need atop, well, _everything_.

  
CCTV footage proved it all: the measured attack, the _car bomb_ , had been planted by Jeremy’s mates.

An intimidation tactic they claimed.

Closer to an assassination attempt on record.

She’d personally led the manhunt that rounded all five conspirators up in a week.

  
They, along with Jeremy, were sent packing to jail with a long list of charges to their names.

  
Even with the best defense attorney in the country, they’d _never_ see the light of day again.

Perfect.

  
She stood, leaned over the balcony, let the salty air brush past her face, wet it with the beginnings of a rainstorm.

Her eyes fell closed, the rain dripping down her forehead, off her chin.

“ _It’s done. Case is done. Justice for the victims, got it._ ” She thought, hands folded together.

Usually, she’d feel good, accomplished even.

  
She felt none of that.

  
It didn’t feel like a triumph.

They were gone, yes.

But five people were still dead.

Fourteen injured, many critically.

And at least one with permanent injuries.

  
…

“ _It was_ my _car. They intended_ me _to die._ ”

  
That thought had run on loop, day and night, for the past few weeks.

It tore apart her sleep, destroyed what moments of solace she could muster.

Left her only with thoughts of what _should have been_ rather than what happened.

  
“ _I was supposed to be in the car._ ”

“ _I was supposed to die._ ”

“ _Hardy wasn’t the one they wanted._ ”

“ _He was only there to get_ my _mobile_.”

“ _If he hadn’t gone to my car –_ “

  
She’d try to stop herself before it went further.

Most nights, she failed.

  
She opened her eyes, gaze drifting down.

She didn’t remember her hands shaking.

She gripped them together, took a shuddered breath, and stared out at the docks that grew sodden with rain.

  
“Don’t care about getting wet?”

  
She could’ve jumped.

Instead, she spun on her heel, hands gripping the railing.

There had a been a response at the tip of her tongue, a snarky remark or comment.

  
It flew out the window upon seeing Hardy.

He looked better, better than he had in weeks.

For the most part, he was back to his thin, grouchy self.

Save for a few things.

One, the scarring on his face, including one large scar on his forehead from his fall.

  
The second, the eyepatch, now fitted over his right eye.

  
He stood there, hands in his pockets, brow furrowing as he waited.

“Did I scare you, Miller?”

  
She shook her head, mouth gaping like a fish for a moment.

“Scared, no. More startled.” She said as she righted herself. “You discharged yourself?”

  
“You surprised by that?” He quipped as he walked up next to her.

  
“Well…suppose I shouldn’t.” She admitted as she turned, joined him in looking over the balcony. “More surprised _Daisy_ let you.”

  
He chewed his lip, mulled and nodded.

“She’s not happy. But I wanted to go home.” His shaking hand pulled out a pack of gum. He popped a piece in his mouth and offered some to Ellie. “Set up the future appointments before I did, all the check-ups. Didn’t just waltz out if you were worried.”

  
“Wasn’t.” She bit out too quickly, regretting it as she accepted a piece of gum.

She looked it over with a cocked eyebrow.

“You chew gum?”

  
“No.” He scrunched the wrapper and stuffed it in his pocket. “Not before but find it’s relaxing. Keeps my mind from wandering.”

  
“Huh. Never thought of that.” The overwhelming, minty taste filled her mouth but, yes, it seemed to keep herself occupied.

  
They stood there, overlooking the station’s steps, chewing gum and hanging in silence for an extended time.

  
Periodically, Ellie’s eyes would sneak a glance, peek at Hardy, watch for shifts in facial expression, twitch of the mouth or brow.

Any sign he might break the silence first.

But, of course, this was Hardy.

  
Her face dipped as she clenched her hands together.

“I _was_ worried.” She nearly spat out. “I was rude. Earlier. I’m sorry.”

  
Hardy turned his head, glanced over.

“Apology accepted.” He raised an eyebrow. “Eating at you?”

  
“Might’ve. Felt like a right git.” She muttered. “After everything you’ve been through – “

  
“Ah, don’t start like…it doesn’t change anything.”

  
She frowned as she looked over.

“Doesn’t it?”

  
“Nah.” Hardy’s eye didn’t meet hers.

Her eyes didn’t leave him as a pause settled between them, dipping only a moment before she spoke.

“How have you been? With everything?”

  
Hardy shrugged.

“Bout as good as you’d think.” He cleared his throat. “Don’t like not having depth perception. Glad that Jenkinson kept me on.”

  
“She wouldn’t fire you.” Ellie frowned again. “That’s discrimination.”

  
“I don’t _know_ , Miller. Bloody can’t see everything in front of me anymore. What good is a detective with one eyeball?” He grumbled.

  
“You know well that’s not everything we do.”

  
“Yeah, but with this and my heart Miller, I’m a broken machine. Get a…a better model. One that’s not falling apart – “

  
“ _Stop_.” Ellie shook her head as the guilt simmered within her, the thoughts from earlier flooding back.

He’d get like this, sure, but he’d been better about it lately.

Until now.

And it wasn’t _supposed_ to be him.

She choked it down; it wouldn’t help now.

“Won’t let you talk about yourself like that.” She muttered. “Not healthy.”

  
“I’m being honest, Miller. They’ll eventually want someone whose body isn’t breaking down and – “

  
“And _if_ that happens, they’ll have to get through _me_ first. Because I don’t give a damn _if_ that’s what they’re thinking. I’m not working with anyone else.” She growled; eyes bored into his.

  
He’d fully turned towards her, eye widened and expression gob smacked, frightened if not impressed at her honest fury.

  
“You surprised?” She asked.

  
“Well…figured I irked you.”

  
“Barely enough to constitute _firing_ you.”

  
“Not a peach to be around.”

  
“We’ve known each other how many years? I figured that out.”

  
His lips pursed.

“Didn’t know you cared that much.”

  
“Course I do.” She sighed. She looked over, the smallest twitch of a smile. “We were the Former Detectives Club. Hardy and Miller. As long as I get a say, and you’re willing, that’s not changing.”

  
He blinked, cheeks slightly colored as he glanced away, expression uncertain.

  
“What? Something I said?” She propped a hand on her hip.

“Not sure how to respond.” He admitted, hands stuffed into his pockets again. “Could be soppy.”

  
“I think we’re past worrying about that.” She said softly, in her eyes the day in the hospital playing, unseen to him but somehow, he knew.

  
He dipped his head, nodded, looked back up with a softened expression that did take Ellie aback for a moment.

“I, uh, appreciate ya, Miller. Thank you.”

  
She nodded, hands under her armpits as she braced against the wind.

She weakly smiled.

“What are friends for?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops i broke him again sorry


	27. Migraines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 26 - Migraines
> 
> Long days at work with little rest can't mean much good for anyone. In Ellie's case, this means migraines.
> 
> CW: none

For some people, a work-life balance is an alien concept.

  
Ellie was starting to become one of those people, at least recently.

  
Chalk that up to a particularly weaselly boat thief who had been terrorizing the community for weeks, popping in and out with barely a trace, like a ghost.

  
He’d been coined the “Broadchurch Phantom” and gained a sizable following amongst the younger citizens, who viewed him as some sort of Robin Hood, targeting the affluent citizens and wrecking their investments.

  
In no small part due to a _beloved_ nephew of hers.

  
She’d given him a thorough bollocking as soon as the first editorial hit the web.

  
“I said I’m sorry, Aunt El!” He’d defended. “I just needed to sell the story. Add some flavor, I didn’t _expect_ it to blow up the way it did. Honest.”

  
She’d rolled her eyes; she only refrained from tearing apart his lies because, to be honest, she had better things to do.

  
Like end the “Broadchurch Phantom’s” reign of terror.

  
She clicked at the video player, restarting the footage for the umpteenth time in a row, eyes trained on the grainy picture, pulled from the docks.

The lack of budget meant colorless footage, which only made her work all the harder.

She stared, video starting at the timestamp, as a featureless figure strolled along the docks, dressed in all black.

He didn’t pause, didn’t linger, before hopping into the victim’s boat.

A minute later, the boat was started and pulled out of frame.

  
End of relevant footage.

  
Restart.

  
Featureless figure, docks, boat, escape.

  
Restart.

  
Figure, docks, boat, escape.

  
Restart.

  
Figure, boat, escape.

  
Restart.

  
Figure, escape.

  
Restart –

…

She scrunched her nose, furrowed her brow, and tapped her screen.

There was a stain on the footage that seemed to…move.

With her gaze.

“ _The hell?_ ”

She smudged the screen and it remained.

She blinked.

It remained.

  
She sighed and raggedly looked away, forcing her eyes shut and breathing deep between tented hands.

Her head spun at the small movement, filled with crackling static, popping and hissing as she went limp in her chair.

She felt decidedly overcome by the desire for a nap.

And, well how about that, her chair did feel quite comfortable.

Perhaps she could take a second -

  
“Miller!”

  
Her eyes shot open, body tensing upright.

Her gaze shot up, the spots floating about.

Her face schooled into a frown.

“ _Christ_ , sir, what do you want?”

  
“Eyewitness just turned up. Need to pull them in for questioning.” Hardy stated as he crossed to his office, grabbing his coat. He looked over his shoulder as he started towards the hallway. “Miller! Come on!”

  
“Agh, I’m coming! Just give me _one_ moment.” She grumbled as she went to her feet, took one step.

  
And oh, oh, oh _no_.

  
That was a mistake.

  
One movement was all it took for her world to fold beneath her, brain churning and equilibrium going flat out the window.

  
Vision went out, need to change the bulb.

Or did the fuse blow?

Didn’t matter.

With it went Ellie.

  
For a whole second, nothing existed, including _herself_.

All she knew was, when her vision trickled into function, she was supported by a pair of arms, face to the carpet.

  
“ _Miller_.” The arms’ voice huffed… _Hardy_. “Alright?”

  
“Uh-huh.” She mumbled.

Which might’ve been a bit premature, as her stomach decided to tell her.

It gurgled noisily, throat going dry and mouth tightening.

“Nuh – okay, no, no not alright.”

  
“What do you need?” asked Hardy in a soft voice.

  
“L-Loo.” She sputtered with a gulp. “Gonna be sick.”

  
“ _Shit_. Uh, bin will do?”

  
“Ermf.”

“Have to then.”

  
He ushered her into his office, closing the door with his ankle, perching her over a bin just in time as she dryly wretched.

  
In a stilted motion, she felt his hand rest on her back, jerking up and down in an imitation of a comforting touch.

“Have you eaten recently?”

  
She spat into the bin, sucked sharp breaths in and out through her nose, shook her head as she wiped the gathered tears away.

  
“How much have you been sleeping?”

  
“Are you _kidding_ , sir?” She shot him a look and instantly regretted it as the world churned and her head thudded, someone at the door. “ _Shite_ …”

  
“Right, okay.” Hardy nodded, lip between his teeth. “Stay right there.”

  
Ellie didn’t argue, only held onto the bin like her life depended on it, head hung low and eyes squeezed shut.

She wiped her mouth, sniffed as she heard the blinds shift.

There was a click, and what light that passed through her eyelids extinguished.

She heard Hardy’s footsteps, passed her and around the desk, heard the click of a button.

Heard him sigh.

  
“Still feeling sick?”

  
She thought, waited, listened for the tell-tale gurgling.

“N-No. Think I’m good.”

  
The floorboards shifted in front of her.

There were hands at her shoulders.

  
“Up.”

  
“No please?” She mumbled.

  
She could hear the roll of his eyes.

“Up, _please_.”

  
“Right.” She shakily stood to her feet.

She let herself be led, blindly stepping and shuffling until her bottom hit something plushy, the sofa.

The hands led her down, to sit and sink against the couch cushions.

They left her and she heard Hardy grumble, heard him pace and move.

  
“Right. Uh, go lay down. Don’t move.”

  
“Not like I could run off.”

  
She opened her eyes, took in the darkened room.

And Hardy’s look of…well -

“Am I irking you?” She mumbled.

  
“If I said yes?”

  
“Turnabout is…is fair…y’know.”

Another flicker of pain led her to pinch the bridge of her nose.

“Nahhh…never mind.”

  
She heard the faintest, lightest puff, somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh.

“Wait there. I’ll be back.”

She muttered some noise of acknowledgement, heard the floorboards shift and the door click shut.

There was some talking outside his office, all mumbled and incomprehensible to her muddled ears.

Not that she cared.

  
The sofa felt nice.

  
_That’s_ what she cared about.

  
In that moment, she’d never felt such comfort.

  
She let her eyes drift shut again and she was out like a light.

\--

  
What felt like a second later, the door slammed shut.

  
“Sorry.”

  
She wrenched her eyes open, an action that took more effort than she anticipated.

She stared out, half-lidded, as Hardy maneuvered his chair around his desk and plopped himself down.

  
  
He lifted a paper baggie and started to rifle through, slowing as she winced, the noise piercing and jabbing at her ears.

He first pulled a bottle out that rattled.

He twisted off the cap, poured a few of its contents into his hands.

“Take these.” He said as he pulled out a bottle of water.

He pushed them against her lips.

  
“Don’t need that.” She grumbled as she snatched up the pills. “M’not a baby.”

  
“Thought you wouldn’t want to move.” He answered as he cracked the bottle open, offered it to her.

  
She leaned up just enough to accept the lip of the bottle, slurping the water down with the pills, relishing the cool sensation against her parched lips.

  
“Need to drink more water.”

  
“Yeah, yeah. Pot meet kettle.” She remarked as she relinquished the bottle.

  
He set the water bottle aside and pulled one last item from the bag: a small baguette.

He tore off a piece and held it to her.

“Shouldn’t upset your stomach.”

  
She accepted it with a raised eyebrow.

“Seem well versed in all this.”

She hesitated, sunk her teeth into the crackly crust and hummed as the warm, soft middle hit her tongue.

“Personal experience?”

  
“Yeah.” He nodded. “Had migraines before.”

  
She paused, a light flashing in her eyes, mixed with the spots.

Her lightened expression immediately soured as she groaned.

“Damnit, _that’s_ what’s wrong. Should’ve known.”

  
“You’ve had one before?”

  
“Might’ve, but it’s been a while.” She took another bite of bread. “Long enough to forget how shit it all is.”

  
“When was the last time?”

  
She mulled a bit on her bite of bread.

“Secondary school. Around exams. Stayed up all night studying. Could barely see straight the day after exams. Felt like shit; just laid in the dark all day.”

“Probably didn’t eat or sleep much.”

  
“Yeah – “

She stopped, leveled a frown at him.

She hmph-ed.

“Hardly think _you’re_ one to lecture me on that.”

  
“Wasn’t going to.” He sat back in his chair; arms crossed.

  
“Well good. Wouldn’t take it.”

  
“I know.”

  
Her weak glare evaporated, replaced with a pang of…something.

Well damn.

Ellie chewed on her bread, unsure of how to respond, unsure if she _wanted_ to respond.

Because she knew him well enough; she was _not_ opening the door for some soppy declaration.

They weren’t soppy, not with each other.

She wasn’t sure she was prepared for that.

  
She finished the bread with a few more sips of water, wiped the crumbs from her lips.

“Do feel better.”

  
“Maybe in a few hours you can try some chips.”

  
“You don’t – “She frowned, tucked herself into the pillows. “– don’t need to do this, you know. I’m a grown woman. Can take care of myself.”

  
“You really think you could handle driving to the chippie yourself?” He asked with a look.

  
Her lips thinned.

“Could…don’t want to.”

  
“There we go.”

  
“Why are you being so nice to me?”

  
He frowned.

“Is it that weird?”

  
“Well, no. No, I guess not.” She mumbled. “…sorry.”

Her eyes crawled to the cushion.

“We do have a case though. Bit more important than this.”

  
“This is more urgent.” Hardy stood and pulled something from behind the chair.

He walked over, loomed above her, and draped a fluffy blanket over half of her.

  
“I’d hardly say – “

  
“ _You_ are.” He frowned.

  
Her mouth snapped shut.

She turned a sheepish pink, hidden in the darkened room, and half-buried herself in the blanket.

“Right.” She mumbled. “But you really should go interview the witness. People are counting on us.”

  
“I’m not leaving you alone.”

  
“Won’t be. Still people in the station. And – “Her eyes dragged to glance behind her. “– my mobile. Set it near me. I’ll call you if I start dying.”

  
He shot her a look.

  
“I am _kidding_.”

  
“Least you’re getting better.” He muttered as he left.

He returned and set the mobile on the couch’s arm.

“Set it to vibrate. Call me _before_ you start dying.”

  
“No promises.” She smirked sleepily.

  
He allowed his own smile to creep past, hands buried in his pockets.

He set the water bottle right below her, tucked the blankets to ensure she was warm.

“Won’t be long.”

  
“Better not.” She yawned as she let her eyes close.

  
He chuckled and, finally, made his way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not my best work but ehhhhhhhh least there's comfort? not really whump whoops


	28. Earthquakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 27 - Earthquakes
> 
> Still recovering from the St. James argument, Aziraphale finds himself in the San Francisco during the Earthquake of 1906.
> 
> CW: blood, injury, implied suicidal ideation, broken bones

_1906_

  
Forty years had never felt so long.

  
In all respects, it would’ve been like a blink of an eye for an angel.

  
“ _Forty years,_ ” He’d’ve scoffed. “ _I’ve experienced centuries and millennia. Forty years is nothing._ ”

  
If only he could say that now.

  
He set aside his teacup, gazed towards the view seen from his rather fine apartment, still taking in the foreign coastline and modern architecture.

The waters of the Pacific, it seemed, were far bluer than those of his native Atlantic.

Cerulean even, rather than the gray blue of the Thames or the green-toned pond waters of St. James.

More a postcard than reality.

He wasn’t sure if he begrudged the sea for that.

  
But perhaps it was for the better, a complete change of scenery.

  
He had, after all, found himself rather stationary in the recent century, happy in Soho, establishing his bookshop.

Had been.

…

He took another sip of tea.

  
He wasn’t in the wrong, he knew that well.

He could never, in good conscience, accept Crowley’s utterly _ridiculous_ request.

Holy water.

What kind of fool did he take him for?

As if Aziraphale would condone his eternal suicide, as if it’d be a favor.

  
Though, Aziraphale supposed that to most angels, it _would_ qualify as a favor, but that was beside the point.

  
Crowley had babbled about needing insurance, concern about things going ‘pear-shaped’, but the request was all the same to Aziraphale.

Absolutely _not_.

Never.

Not in a million years.

He could never subject his colleague to such a fate.

Could never subject his closest –

…

He’d seemed so distressed that day.

Aziraphale only really processed it after he’d stormed off, angry and hurt and worried and guilt-ridden.

He’d regretted his reaction, not his sentiment, within a day.

But he hadn’t reached out, not immediately.

If he were to be honest (as an angel, wasn’t he expected to be?) he wasn’t sure how to start.

So, he waited, and hoped, _believed_ , that things would shore up as normal.

He’d bought a particular bottle of scotch just for the occasion.

Because, always, no matter how bad the row, Crowley would saunter back to wherever Aziraphale had been lodging at the time.

They’d share drinks.

Things would be amended.

And they’d go on with their lives.

  
…

But a week passed, and Crowley was nowhere to be seen.

Months passed.

Years passed.

A _decade_ passed.

And not a word from the demon.

  
He hadn’t gone back to Hell.

He wasn’t, somehow, in Heaven (thank goodness).

He was on Earth.

But his demonic signature, the aura of occult energy he naturally gave off, felt low.

A visit to his last known flat, with said bottle of scotch, ended in failure as well as the heartrending realization that, at some point, the demon had moved.

The signal was so faint, Aziraphale found himself going in circles, unable to directly determine where Crowley was or _how_ he was.

  
He didn’t feel he was in danger, at least.

Which left him with one other conclusion: Crowley must not want to see him.

  
Not now, at least.

  
…

He’d accepted the opportunity, an assignment in the USA, a few decades afterwards.

  
Neither him nor Crowley had spent much time in the Americas, not since the colonial days, and at the least, San Francisco was becoming quite a bustling place of activity.

He’d been called there to spread goodwill through the disgruntled populace, the city reeling from a rather nasty grafting scandal that spread through the city legislature.

Long term, low level work; nothing Aziraphale couldn’t handle and distracting enough to keep his mind from the snake in the room.

  
From his new residence in the Nob Hill neighborhood, he’d found plenty to occupy his downtime, what with the fine restaurants and establishments that stood on every street, the numerous art galleries that he’d peruse on a lazy afternoon, as well its own parks that took up his previous routines at St. James.

It was perfect.

It should’ve been perfect.

  
But the shadow of a certain demon lingered still, even now.

  
Even as he sat at his window, nibbling on an American biscuit (a ‘cookie’ he’s been told), enjoying the cool winds of the early spring.

He couldn’t help but glance over, every now and then, at the empty chair adjacent to him.

Why he bought two chairs, he’d never know.

Not like he had company often.

  
“ _Habit?_ ”

  
All he knew was that it punctuated that feeling…loneliness.

He set down the cookie with a single bite out of it, got up, and picked up the chair with ease.

He stored it away in his ample closet, dusted his hands and returned to his chair.

Looked across from him.

…

“ _…why did I pull a second cup?_ ”

He started to rise but eventually felt the stamina drain out of him.

He sighed and snapped the spare cup away.

Leaving the table fitted with a dining set for one.

As it should.

He supposed.

  
He finished his cup of tea, snapped away the dirty dishes and strolled over to his reading chair where a book sat at the ready.

Reading glasses perched on his nose, he readied himself to partake in his recent find: a book all about…about…

He blinked.

Glanced at the cover.

Ah yes, _The Complete Works of Shakespeare_.

But of course.

  
He cracked it open.

  
…an hour later and he hadn’t digested a word.

Hadn’t even registered _which_ play he was reading.

He slammed the book shut with a huff, lips thinned, and brows knit tight.

“This is ridiculous.” He puffed as he stood, straightened his waistcoat.

  
It’d been forty years.

  
_Forty years is a blink of an eye to an angel._

  
The thought passed through him, wrapped itself around his eardrums, and his body slumped.

“Dear me.” He mumbled.

He paced the room, the flat, entered his sitting room where his writing desk sat.

He glanced over to a stack of postcards he’d collected, all with lovely prints of San Francisco on their fronts.

…perhaps that was the ticket.

  
“That would do it. A, ah, short postcard. A check in, send it on its way and should quiet the mind. Get him off the brain.”

He plopped himself down, unscrewed a pen, whose tip hovered over the stationery.

“…best start simple.”

  
_Dear Crowley_ ,

  
He paused.

Thought.

…what exactly did he want to say?

He hadn’t considered that.

He played with the pen; lips thinned with thought.

Perhaps best to just write.

See what came forth.

  
_I am writing to you as it has been some time since I’ve seen you._

_  
_Alright, good.

Good start.

  
_I hope this postcard finds you well, wherever you are, and that you are in good health._

_  
_Demons didn’t _technically_ require good health, but oh well.

He supposed the sentiment was still there.

He tapped the pen’s cap against his cheek.

He scrawled onwards.

_I do wonder where you have found yourself. I currently am stationed in the city of San Francisco. Yes, the States, if you would believe me! I haven’t quite processed that myself._

_  
_He continued, describing his neighborhood, the seascape, the bare details of his recent work.

  
_I must admit, I do terribly miss Soho and the bookshop. Do not worry; I have ensured it won’t be investigated or foreclosed upon while I’m away. Not a speck of dust where it shouldn’t be either. My standards do still remain._

_  
_He chuckled to himself.

He could see the roll of Crowley’s eyes behind those shades of his.

The small smirk, imperceptible to anyone who didn’t know him.

  
…

  
_And I must further admit that I find myself missing you. Terribly_.

  
He paused, surprising himself at the honesty of his words.

  
He might’ve considered crossing the line out but before he could stop himself, the words gushed forward.

  
_I regret every day our argument at St. James. I regret my words, my anger, and the hurt I levied at you. It was not right of me. I only hope you know that it came not from hatred but deep concern. If you were to be destroyed by holy water I gave you, I do not believe I could begin to forgive myself. To lose you, my one and dearest friend, would be –_

  
He froze and the pen slipped from his hands.

His unnecessary heart thrummed in his chest and, well, the room felt unseasonably warm.

He stood up, sent his chair clattering over.

Shaking hands plucked up the confessional postcard and chucked it into the bin.

  
Clearing his throat and fussing with his tie, he shook his head.

“A bit too much.” He squeaked before he cleared his throat again. “Need to…consider my words more thoroughly, I think.”

He strode away, fingers laced over his tummy, drumming nervously, as he adjourned back to his room and attempted to return to his reading.

\--

  
_4:30 am_

  
He was in his chair when it started.

He must’ve fallen asleep (quite unusual, though he supposed everything was unusual for him as of late), book long forgotten in his lap.

It wasn’t gradual, wasn’t a build over several hours, came with no signal or warning.

  
One moment the earth was calm.

  
The next, utter _calamity_.

  
He was startled awake as the light fixtures above him swayed, stained-glass clattering and breaking against the ceiling, picture frames crashing to the floor.

His chair jolted, scratched the hardwood and tilted with the bed as dust poured down in thin streams.

He gripped the chair’s arms, pupils flitting every which way as he heard cracking above him.

  
He drew his feet back with a yelp, just in time as a piece of ceiling smashed into the floor.

  
He threw himself to his feet and stumbled to the window, fingers dug into the wooden sill as he stared at the street below.

The buildings themselves, built of sturdy brick and mortar, swung and wobbled like gelatin, dust and bricks flying free to the pavement below as lights switched on in every house.

  
A crash came behind him and he snapped around.

  
Another chunk of ceiling fell, this time breaking his bed in half.

  
Clearly, staying here was becoming a non-option.

  
Throwing open the window, Aziraphale gave only a cursory look of nervousness before he launched himself outward, pulling and beating his wings just enough to cushion his fall as he landed with a sharp “oomph”.

Shoulder throbbing but otherwise unhurt, Aziraphale pulled himself to his feet, wobbling as he did.

The ground below him groaned and crackled, shifting side to side, sending a trolley out of control rolling down the hill, its bell ringing wildly.

Following it were several cars, brakes broken loose, rolling and steering into buildings, one nearly into Aziraphale if he hadn’t jumped out of the way.

  
On his belly, he craned his head up, eyes directed to the horizon as the screams built in earnest, pooling and splashing against Nob Hill’s base.

  
The smoke…or _dust_ , had eclipsed the waterfront.

Explosions of bright orange and yellow were the only things to split through.

  
Face paled with horror, he stretched his wings, ready to fly to the aid of the surely wounded.

  
He flapped up over the rooftops, watching with pained eyes as bricks flew loose and rained upon the few that fled into the streets, mixed with glass and wood scraps.

Trees toppled, groaning and croaking as old wood splintered, leaves crashing and dusting the dirtied streets.

One creaked, rocked forward, ready to engulf a cowering mother and her child.

  
Aziraphale snapped and the tree missed them by mere inches.

  
Fires had started to spring up around the city, pillars of flame stretching into the sky and singing his feathers.

The cacophony of brick and stone crashing against cement rang through the air as buildings imploded, swallowing whatever and whoever remained inside too quickly for even an angel to respond.

He could only continue flying, eyes on the lookout for survivors.

  
He soon came upon a building, a row house, where flames licked its stone exteriors and black smoke billowed from the shattered windows.

He could feel, deep inside, five lives fading, voices screaming in agony.

He landed a few feet away, tucked his wings away, and broke through the fire department’s blockade.

  
“Hey! Hey! You can’t go in there! What the hell are you doing?!” cried a fire captain.

  
“Terribly sorry! Be out in a pip!” He stammered as he barreled into the building.

  
Smoke streamed forward, filled his lungs and forced dry coughs free as he surveyed the crumbling building, watery eyes flitting around for signs of life.

More screams poured from the upstairs and he traversed the weakening stairs.

He snapped his fingers as he arrived, finding a family crowded against a broken door.

“T-This way! This, please, hurry along.” Aziraphale coughed into his shoulder as he directed them forward, past flames and down the stairs. “The stairs will hold but please! Don’t dally!”

  
The father rushed out last, one of his children in his arms, their forms vanishing in the smoke.

  
Aziraphale bound down the burning hallways, senses keen for any missed survivors, anyone lost or trapped by the flames.

He pushed open doors, spared precious oxygen for shouts and cries, the air growing increasingly hazy.

He’d turned to return to the hallway, having left an abandoned apartment, when the crackling noises built above him.

He hadn’t even a split second before everything went black and the world, near _literally_ , collapsed around him.

  
\--

  
He woke up.

  
Color and clarity filtered through, spreading away grays and blacks and reds from his vision, coughs spilling forth that shocked his vision with white.

He groaned, a pain lacing and arcing through his whole self, mind still a soupy mess as he tried to pull together the pieces.

There was little light, that was apparent immediately.

He saw his hand laid flat in front of him, which he drew close through dust and debris.

He was flat on his belly, he realized.

He tried to lift himself upright only for a growing, piercing pain to split through his spine, against his chest, jabbing and prodding and forcing him back on his belly with a yelp.

He groaned, panted and lifted only his head.

  
“Ah – “He scrambled with his hands, feeling for solid purchase. “– hello? I-Is anyone there?”

  
His hand slipped and something tumbled free.

  
He glanced to his left.

It was a brick, broken in half.

  
It all came together, the last seconds before it all went black.

  
He dug his hands behind him, pawing through debris and rubble, loose dust streaming between his fingers, as he yanked forward only to feel resistance and a sharp, crushing pain down his lower half, starting from his mid-back, abruptly cut off before where he assumed his legs were.

What _remained_ of his legs.

He shuddered to think of what they looked like.

  
A raspy cough overtook him, his hand flying up to cover his mouth.

It drew away afterwards, palm spotted red.

  
The sight left his head spinning, a groan spilling forward as he weakly pawed again at his prison, clambered to loosen the rubble around himself to pull free, feeling and ducking as brick and glass toppled over him, threatening to cave him in.

  
Minutes of struggling with no results, he slumped back down, cheek against the floor, labored and constricted breaths pouring in and out of his crushed lungs.

  
He coughed; more blood splattered forth with a fresh dribble.

  
He groaned, clutched at the ground around him in one last effort, wondered if he could summon his wings forth and breach the pile around him.

Of course, that might just displace a wave of deadly rock and brick atop his head, ending him instantly.

  
“ _Would that be much worse,_ ” He pondered wearily. “ _than slowly discorporating here? Getting crushed to death?_ ”

  
He was so tired and every inch of him seethed with pain, sharp pain that throbbed and ran through his being at intervals, pulling coughs that burned his throat and vice-gripped his ribs.

He could end it now.

Discorporate.

Have a new body in a century if he was lucky.

…

  
But to even move was agony, much less produce his wings and flap them hard enough to displace the rubble.

Perhaps it wasn’t his choice to make after all.

  
Tears mixed with his blood as he sniffed, coughed more blood that pooled from his mouth.

This wasn’t his first discorporation, yet it terrified him more than some other, just as grisly ends.

To die alone, slowly, trapped and crushed beneath a building, unsure if he will be found.

He sobbed, tried desperately to pull himself free again to no avail.

He slacked, laid still aside from the sobs that rocked through him and sent even more pain into his ribs and sides.

His sight was darkening again, growing fuzzy at the edges and then all over, and then through his mind too.

  
…

  
Then it arrived.

A beam of light.

  
Perhaps the Host sweeping him back into Heaven’s hold.

There was a pang of hope that this would be over.

  
The rocks around him clattered, the light vanishing amidst shadow.

  
He weakly gasped in relief, matched with more coughs, now wet, as the load upon his body lightened and lightened.

The shadow moved, a blurry figure pawing and digging, debris falling past yet never atop Aziraphale.

The burden lifted; Aziraphale could feel it, yet not his lower half.

The shadow swallowed him, its limbs reaching out and laying upon his legs and back.

He might’ve hallucinated it, but he thought he heard a hushed swear, a hiss of sympathetic pain and grief.

  
A gasp was pulled from him, then, as a power surged through, resetting his spinal column, the sensation of his lower body returning to him.

  
A mixed blessing as he groaned, the burning agony reaching him fully, the feel of warm blood plastering his trousers to his skin, the seethe of still shattered bone.

The limbs receded and Aziraphale felt them rest against his shoulders.

He was turned over, deftly yet carefully, and he was dragged backwards just as the pocket he’d inhabited collapsed into itself.

  
His eyes had yet to clear, yet to right themselves, as the shadow loomed above him, its limbs now stretching towards his face.

Aziraphale flinched away and the…the _hands_ stopped.

They looked decidedly worried.

Only once Aziraphale relaxed, too tired to fight, did they proceed.

Fingers brushed over his forehead, sweeping around soaked locks of blonde hair and cleaning away dried blood, the touch so delicate and thoughtful.

Aziraphale hummed, leaned into the touch, which caused the strange shadow to stiffen, halt its movements.

The power flowed forth again, rushing into his mind and causing a sleepy fog to flow over him.

  
His eyelids fluttered, vision graying once more, as the shadow remained above him.

His mind supplied a name, a single concept, right before everything went black one more.

  
“ _Crowley?_ ”

  
\--

  
Rocks clattered, fell free.

  
The warmth and light of the sun filtered through, shone through his eyelids as his slumber grew thin.

There were shadows, voices underwater and soon, hands at his shoulders, pawing at his coat.

“ _Oh, do be careful. This is vintage._ ”

  
He’d wanted to say that, but all that tumbled from clumsy lips were mumbles and utterances of wordless noises.

Distantly he felt it, the rocks prodding and rumbling down his back as the hands pulled, tugged him into the blinding light.

The muffled voices grew louder, the shadows surrounding him and peering down with invisible eyes.

  
“ _Mister…alright?_ ”

  
Aziraphale blinked slowly, coughed out a cloud of dust and groaned, his whole body more sponge than flesh, senses dulled and sore.

  
A shadow passed over him with the brightest light, the size of a marble, as fingers pulled at his…his eyelids?

Yes, that’s it.

His eyelids.

A hand braced his chin, tilted his head.

It was a careful hand.

  
“Mmph…C-Crowley?” Aziraphale finally managed to utter.

  
“ _Who’s…was he…with you?_ ”

  
“Y-Yes. He was.”

  
The figure, whose details slowly bloomed into clarity, directed some of the bystanders and jabbed a finger at the surrounding rubble.

  
“We’ll find him. Get him out too.” Assured the figure.

  
“Oh.” Aziraphale mumbled as something smooth slipped beneath him. “Jolly good.”

His head spun as he was lifted, felt his back dip below him, supported by what felt like hammock material which let him sway ever so slightly.

  
A different man approached, decked in army green with a red cross on his armband.

“Legs might be broken. Possible cranial injury. Sir, can you feel your legs? Anything below the pelvis?” asked the man.

  
Aziraphale blinked, and his eyes widened as he remembered.

“Ah, yes. I can.”

A smile stumbled across his face as he laid deep against the gurney.

“Crowley did a wonderful job with that. Spine was in two before he came along. How k…thoughtful of him.”

  
The medic frowned, shared a concerned look with the first rescuer.

“This Crowley…he’s the same man in the rubble?”

  
“He’s quite thoughtful that way. Always finds me even in the worst of pickles. I do wonder how he does that.” Aziraphale continued dazedly.

  
The medic crooked their mouth as Aziraphale was loaded into the ambulance.

“Correct my report. He’s _definitely_ suffering from a cranial injury. Sounds a bit shaken at least, at worst he might be hallucinating.” He reported to another waiting medic.

  
“So, what? That Crowley guy he mentioned? Might just be, uh, a figment of his imagination?” asked the first rescuer.

  
The medic sighed and wiped some soot from their face.

“I’d still check the rubble. Just in case. He might’ve hallucinated being aided, but it’s possible this Crowley guy is real.”

  
“Odd name.”

  
“Are you gonna waste time or – “

  
“Sorry. Right,” the first rescuer turned to the digging men. “be on the lookout! Another man might be trapped in there. Spread the word! Ask for a ‘Crowley’!”

  
And the name echoed through the aid teams, people searching and wondering about the mystery man, as Aziraphale’s ambulance drove away.


	29. Mugged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 28 - Mugged
> 
> After Eddie gets mugged on his way to the hospital, Campbell decides to do something about it. It doesn't go well.
> 
> CW: violence, blood

“ _Hospital Radio…St. Jude’s!_ ”

  
“And that was ‘The Twist’ by Chubby Checker, just a little taste of all the best hits here on The Campbell Bain Show! Next up is a request from a bird in Ward 8; says this is a hit with nine of her ten personalities. Well, we hope the tenth isn’t listening today, because we’re playing ‘Earth Angel’!”

Campbell flicked off his mic channel and set the needle, filling the air with the smooth melodies of The Penguins, other hand drumming a pencil.

  
“It’s almost 6:30.” Piped up Rosalie, her head popping up from beneath the desk, cleaner in hand.

  
“Eddie’s late.” Added Fergus, who clung to the corner.

  
“He is, isn’t he?” Campbell’s brow furrowed as he glanced at the station’s clock. “I mean I can handle the whole hour, but I only prepared a half hour setlist.”

  
“Could play more requests.” Suggested Rosalie.

  
“Aye, I know, but this is – “

  
“Fifth time in two weeks.” Noted Fergus.

  
“– and that’s a little weird, don’t’ya think?”

  
“His car is out. That’s what he told me.” Rosalie scrubbed at the desk, applying Dettol. “So, he’s on the bus’s timetable and you know how the bus can be.”

  
“I guess.” Campbell tucked his hands under his armpits, swayed in the chair.

  
“You don’t think so?”

  
“Nah, I _do_ , but…” Campbell mumbled some unintelligible words. “…still feels weird.”

  
“You mean boring?”

  
Campbell spun to face Fergus, a look on his face.

  
“Mean, doesn’t have to be anything nefarious. Could just be late.”

  
“I know that, Fergus.”

  
“But you seem disappointed.”

  
“M’not!”

  
“You really do.” Added Rosalie.

  
“Prefer a grand conspiracy, Campbell?” ribbed Fergus.

  
“It’d be more interesting than a late bus.” He muttered in defeat.

  
At that, the station’s door opened, the trio spinning to face the entrant.

Eddie stood tall, unnaturally straight, face wet with sweat.

He was panting rather hard, as if he’d run the kilometers to St. Jude’s rather than rode them.

“Sorry I’m late.” He shuffled in, closed the door behind him. His left arm remained plastered to his side. “Bus hit traffic again.”

  
“Not a trouble.” Rosalie assured.

  
“Alright?” asked Fergus.

  
Eddie nodded and plopped himself down in the chair next to Campbell, reached for the switches with his right hand while the left hung still.

“What have you played so far?”

  
Campbell fumbled for his notepad, checking off the Chubby Checker request as he ran through the listings.

“Started with some Everly Brothers, followed by Cilia Black, that was a popular one. Uh, played The Beatles. That was good. Then a bit of Orbison and the King. Just finished Chubby Checker and now almost done with The Penguins.”

  
“Where’s the request list?”

Eddie started to stand.

  
“Hey now, you just got here. Got it _right_ over – “Campbell had placed a hand on Eddie’s left shoulder, kept him sitting as he reached for a pinned piece of paper.

  
Only to halt at the sharp gasp of pain from Eddie, the trio’s eyes snapping to the head DJ.

  
Eddie had fully retracted, pushing Campbell’s hand away as his pained expression transitioned to an apologetic one.

He averted his eyes, cleared his throat, sat back upright.

“Right. Sorry.”

  
“You’re hurt.” Rosalie mumbled as she started for his sleeve.

  
“It’s nothing serious. Just a bump.”

  
“What happened then?” asked Campbell, sat back in his chair.

  
Eddie’s lips thinned, face pursed with thought, consideration, as Rosalie rolled up his sleeve.

“It’s not th – “He shook his head. “– just a run in with a mugger. Got my last few quid.”

He grumbled as he gestured out.

“I don’t like to fight, but that _bastard_ has gotten me five times in the last few weeks. I was sick of getting robbed, so I tried to push him off.”

Eyes meeting Rosalie, who ducked her own gaze, he sighed and undid his top buttons, poking his shoulder from his shirt.

“Oh dear.” She gasped. “It’s gone purple already.”

  
“ _Great_.” Eddie mumbled. “That was from when the asshole shoved me into a wall. Grabbed my quid and ran.”

  
“I’ll get ice.” Fergus volunteered and left.

  
“Five times – _that’s_ why you’ve been late!” Exclaimed Campbell.

  
“This happened near the hospital then?”

  
Eddie nodded.

“Aye, right by the bus stop. Right convenient for him, isn’t it? Veritable conveyor of people to mug and _I_ have to be one of them.” He hissed as Rosalie poked at the bruise. “Real piece of work he is.”

  
“Well, why don’t you call the police? They’d snatch him right up. Problem solved!”

  
“I did, Campbell.” Eddie responded. “After the first and third time. Only knicks a few quid from me each time, so the coppers don’t think it’s important. That and there’s dozens of muggers around, too many to go after just one.”

  
“He’s gotten you _five times_ though.” Campbell slumped in his chair. He perked a moment. “Oh! You must’ve, oh, you got a good look at the guy, right? Did you report all that to the police? Don’t know if it’s like on telly, but if they send out a sketch or – “

  
“Brown hair, average height and build, somewhere in his twenties. Campbell, do you know how many people would match that description?”

  
Campbell’s expression drooped.

“Well, yeah, but you said he knicks you in the same spot – “

  
“And the police can’t do anything. They tell me they’ll look into things and nothing happens. Really, I wonder if they just _don’t care_ at times.”

Eddie paused, shook his head, as Fergus returned with an icepack.

“Just have to be more careful. Find another stop. ‘til I can afford to fix my car.”

  
Campbell sank against his chair, belatedly realizing that the station had been broadcasting dead air for several minutes.

He threw on another record, announced the next track, then turned off his mic once more.

“Is that really it? They…it’s their job though! They can’t just not care.”

  
Eddie’s lips drew thin, a rueful look across his face broken by a wince as Rosalie pressed the icepack to his shoulder.

“Being an officer is a job, like any other. They prioritize. A guy nicking a few quid means nothing to a bank robber or arsonist. All require resources and a low-level, repeat mugger isn’t much for their radar. Just…”

He sighed nasally, glanced at his wrapped shoulder.

“…have to make do.”

  
At that, even Rosalie and Fergus gave one another downhearted looks.

  
Campbell mirrored theirs as he spun in his chair, returned to facing the DJ desk as Eddie took over.

His eyes flitted up, thoughts churning, as Eddie prepared the next song.

\--

  
“Need a favor from ye, Fergus.”

  
Fergus looked up from his electronics magazine, glanced to his left and took in the expression Campbell held.

It could only be described as _inspired_.

“I’m not helping you stop a mugger.”

  
Campbell’s expression wilted as he sat on the bed’s edge.

“Come on, Fergus! Not asking you to sock him or anything. Just need your, you know, escape tools. Just for a night. Return them in the same condition, swear on my grandmother’s grave.”

  
“Just doesn’t sound safe.”

  
“Says the guy who repels from windows every night.”

  
“I don’t run around like bloody Batman afterwards.”

  
“But, but! Maybe, this time – “Campbell turned and leaned forward, hands out to gesture his argument into being. “– look, like Eddie said, the police aren’t gonna do a thing. But that _creep_ is still out there, mugging random people, jacking up people’s shoulders and whatnot. Could be doing worse! We only know what happened to Eddie, there could be _loads_ more that bastard is doing.”

  
Eddie lowered his magazine, eyes at the ceiling as he thought.

He then looked back over.

“Alright, and what’s your plan then?”

  
Campbell grinned.

“What I do best. Make a scene. Catch the mugger in the act, make sure _everyone_ sees how scummy he’s acting. That many witnesses? Cops will have to do something.”

  
Fergus nodded.

“Yeah. Great. Witnesses will rush for the payphones. Mugger will stand there and wait patiently for the cops, thoroughly embarrassed by the whole affair. Foolproof.”

  
“Ya don’t have to be nasty about it.” Campbell deflated.

“I just don’t want ya getting yourself killed, that’s all.” Fergus sighed. “People won’t leave you alone just because you’re young.”

  
“Aye, I know! I know and…and look, I _know_ what I’m doing. I have planned. I know what could happen, but that’s just it! It _could_ happen, doesn’t mean it will.”

  
“And yer willing to take that chance, Campbell?”

  
“Not just willing. Gonna.” His eyes softened. “Because, come on. M’not gonna sit back when people are getting hurt by a creep. I know that he exists and I’m gonna do something. And I promise, I won’t in over my head. Just do enough to raise a stink. Get enough people complaining to the police and they’d _have_ to look more into it. Then! Everyone gets to walk that road safely.”

  
Fergus pursed his lips, eyes drifting and peering away in thought, sighs passing through sealed lips.

  
“Come on.”

  
Fergus’s gaze returned reluctantly, matched with a slow blink.

“I’m not gonna be implicated in your plan, alright?”

He gestured towards his closet.

“Can’t stop you if you happened upon my things.”

  
Campbell’s grin returned, wide and infectious as ever, as he bounded towards the closet, pawing through with utmost care until he found the cloth tote filled with rope and a trusty grappling hook.

  
“You’re going _tonight_?”

  
Campbell looked as he slung the bag over his shoulder.

“Well yeah! Strike while the iron’s hot. We know that bastard’s in the area; wait too long and we might miss him.”

Standing up straight, Campbell stuffed his hands in his pockets and gave Fergus a nod.

“Hey. Thank you. Really appreciate it. I do.”

  
“Didn’t see anything.” Fergus returned to his magazine.

  
Campbell chuckled, started to turn and walk towards the door.

  
“Campbell.”

  
He stopped.

  
Fergus looked over his magazine, lowered it as his expression turned sage once more.

“Be careful, alright?”

  
Campbell nodded, gave him a thumbs up.

And snuck out the door.

  
\--

  
There’s a secluded window in a small inlet, a forgotten architectural oddity situated in the ward’s hallway, off to the side, outward facing.

  
Its purpose was unknown for years.

  
That is, until Fergus came along, and determined that its location was perfect for sneaky, late night escapes that could be utilized on multiple occasions without fail.

The staff never seemed to catch on, despite his escapes being similar in nature.

  
Campbell banked on that fact.

  
He tossed down the rope, secured the hook to the windowsill, and snaked his way down the rope, rappelling the floors of brick wall, jean jacket scraping the brickwork as he went.

He kept his head ducked, covered by his New York cap, muttering quiet pleas towards whatever deity that was available to keep him hidden.

His hands burned, skin ragged as he passed the halfway point, and downright screamed as his toes scraped the ground.

He dropped the rest of the way, swept and patted his roughed palms against his jeans, before tucking the rope into a darkened corner.

  
Clapping his hands together, he grinned and took a deep breath of the fresh, night air.

  
He was out.

He stifled a giddy giggle as he stuffed his hands into his pockets, keeping himself as inconspicuous as possible as he vacated the hospital’s grounds.

He wove around departing visitors and off-duty nurses (none of whom seemed to recognize him) and eventually slunk past the St. Jude’s sign, soles of his shoes meeting unguarded pavement, meeting the roads of “outside world” Glasgow.

The real world.

  
There was a short-lived thickness in his throat as it flitted through his mind, the small voice of Fergus.

“ _I just don’t want you getting killed_.”

“I won’t though.” Campbell assured the memory. “That’s not in the plan.”

He ran off before the memory could respond.

  
The bus stop was a few blocks down, close to some rundown buildings with dilapidated brickwork and garbage-strewn porches, flickering lampposts and vintage notices decaying against their tacks on every vertical surface.

His pace slowed, his eyes darting to the alleyways that skewed inky blackness against the already dark night, black holes that could contain, well, anything.

  
Anything _not good_ , that is.

  
He lingered by the bus stop, back lounging against the post, waiting for any movement, any sign of a person that matched a mugger.

He waited.

Waited.

A bus slowed to a halt, its doors breaching open with a hiss.

A woman in smart business clothes exited, waved off the driver who continued with no regard for Campbell.

  
The woman’s heels clacked against the sidewalk as she fiddled with her purse, dug around for whatever was on her mind.

She hovered around the shadows of the alleyway.

  
The shadows, in return, _moved_.

  
A man stepped out, previously unseen by Campbell much to his shock, and breached the woman’s space, flicking open a switchblade.

He matched Eddie’s description: brown hair, average build, somewhere in his twenties.

He was muttering at the woman in tones too low for Campbell to hear, not that he needed to know the _specifics_ of what he was saying.

The woman frowned, argued back in far louder tones, only to be shoved against a nearby wall, the knife pointed at her neck.

  
“ _Right, that’s enough._ ”

  
“Hey! Hey you! The wanker in the coat!” shouted Campbell.

  
Said wanker’s head snapped over, glare directed in Campbell’s direction.

  
“Yeah, you! Nice coat! What trash bin you dig it out of?”

  
The mugger’s gaze sized up Campbell before he snarled.

“This ain’t your business, kid. Leave us alone.” The mugger hissed.

  
“Oh, I think it is! I heard some knob was running around _mugging people_.” Campbell overemphasized the last two words, shouting them for anyone nearby to hear. “Yeah, _attacking_ and _mugging people_ , that’s what I heard. And, uh, looks like I caught you red handed.”

  
“You an informant or something?” The mugger frowned. “Undercover cop?”

  
“Well…could be.” Campbell stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Or I just _really_ don’t like jerks who _mug people_.”

He emphasized the last two words again, glancing around, feeling his heart sink as he took in the still empty streets.

  
“Bugger off less you want _this_ ” the mugger gestured with his knife. “in your gullet.”

  
Campbell met the woman’s eyes, her terrified and confused eyes, and his mouth went dry.

He gave her a wobbling smirk before his gaze flitted back to the mugger.

“What? That butter knife? You won that in a magazine or something?” His voice dipped quieter.

  
The mugger’s face flared red, his hand gripping the knife harder, attention completely abandoning the woman.

  
Which she seemingly noticed, if her choice to kick the man in the jewels was anything to go off.

  
The mugger howled, nearly dropped to his knees as he dropped the knife, the woman taking off other way.

“H-Hey! You bitch! Get back here!” The mugger growled as he staggered back upright.

The woman didn’t stop or slow.

  
His attention then snapped back around, back to Campbell.

His eyes had gone cold, icy, face twisted in a sneer.

“Oh, you’re a _dead_ man.”

He pulled himself tall and lunged forward, shoulders forward, _barreling_.

  
Campbell barely got the moment to turn, to start to consider running, when the man’s weight collided into him, hands gripping his shoulders, turning him and tossing him into the nearby alley.

He fell onto his stomach, arms flailed as he pulled himself upward, head craning back to face his assailant.

  
The mugger’s shadow swallowed the nearby lamplight, doused Campbell in darkness as he stalked forward, reared his leg back and swung it deep into his stomach.

  
Campbell reeled, curled into himself, wheezed.

  
The mugger reached down, lifted him by the collar and threw him against a wall.

  
Campbell’s head clacked back, pulled another yelp from him.

  
“You’re gonna regret your little Samaritan shit, mate.” The mugger growled.

He pulled his hand, balled it into a fist, and _punched_.

  
To his cheek.

To his jaw.

Towards his nose.

Towards his eye.

To the cheek again.

  
Campbell started to slump, and he pinned him to the wall.

  
Knee to the kidney.

Fist to the ribs.

Fist to the stomach.

Fist back to the face.

  
…

He only pulled away once his knuckles started bleeding, face twisted into a scowl as he released Campbell.

  
Campbell, in return, didn’t and couldn’t attempt to remain on his feet.

He sunk straight down; face flooded with red, weak coughs sputtering forth mixed with tears.

  
“Bet that’ll teach ya.” Growled the mugger, who spat at Campbell. “You little brat.”

He wiped his knuckles off on his jeans and stalked off, not giving Campbell another look.

  
Campbell coughed, spat a glob of blood-tinged saliva onto the pavement, faltered and leaned against some black bin bags left forgotten in the alley.

His head pounded, pulsed waves of sharp pain through his head, his face, his _everything_.

He knew he should get up, leave before the mugger changed his mind, but he couldn’t bring himself to move.

Everything hurt and he needed a break.

He groaned, slacked against the wall, looked blearily at the alleyway’s opening.

  
Gray and black encroached on his vision as he laid there, mind reeling and blood still trickling down his face.

  
He whined, sunk against the trash bags, a figure blotting the last of his vision as he blacked out.

\--

  
He woke, slowly, to a throbbing pain in his head.

  
His eyes wouldn’t open, not without protest and not without an increased throng of pain from his left side.

He groaned, blinked and winced with each pang of pain, the blurry room slowly clearing.

  
Someone near him cleared their throat.

  
He forced his head to turn, the pain escalating and forcing a slower progression, until he finally was looking towards the source of the sound.

  
Eddie.

He sat in an uncomfortable chair, hands folded together and eyes patient.

“Finally awake then.”

  
Campbell grumbled, raised a hand to rub his eyes only to flinch and hiss.

“Where am I?”

  
“A&E. Took you as soon as I found you.”

  
“Found m – “Campbell frowned, furrowed his brow.

He sat up, only slightly regretting how his head spun.

  
“Hey, hey, easy – “

  
“That was you! You…saw someone in the alley. Before I passed out. I guess.”

  
Eddie’s mouth snapped shut, a severe look crossing his eyes.

“Yeah. I’d forgotten my jacket back at the station. Had my ID in it. Couldn’t wait until tomorrow. Only reason I was in the area.”

He sat forward.

“I was walking over when I saw some bloke book it out of the alley and heard _you_ amongst the rubbish bags.”

  
Campbell’s smile faded.

  
Eddie nodded shallowly; lips thinned to a straight line.

“I thought you’d been killed. You know that, right?”

He gestured out, slapped his palm against his thigh.

“Blood everywhere. Down your face. You weren’t responding and then you _passed out_.”

His mouth gaped, lingered, before his head sunk and he shook his head.

“Bloody hell, Campbell, what the _hell_ were you doing last night?”

  
Campbell, for a moment, sat only in silence, whatever relief he felt at being found evaporated and filled with growing guilt and regret.

His hands fumbled with his blanket.

“I – I…I couldn’t stop thinking bout what you said.” He started, teeth wearing his lips. “And didn’t seem right, you know? I mean, he jacked your shoulder. Kept stealing money from you. Didn’t want him to get off without _something_. A-And, I know you said the police couldn’t’ do much, but I thought about, well, it might not just’ve been you. And I was right!”

He gave a stricken look to Eddie.

“I really only meant to embarrass him. But…there was a lady. And he had a knife.”

  
Eddie’s face paled.

“You know I couldn’t leave her. Had to do something, even if it was crazy. A-And she ran off!”

Campbell’s gaze left Eddie, pupils shrinking as he thought.

“…don’t think he went _after_ her, do you? After he was through with me.”

He sank into the pillows, his own face grayed and troubled.

  
Eddie pursed his lips.

He threaded his fingers, clasped his hands together, and softened his expression of worried anger.

“She ran _before_ he attacked you?”

  
Campbell nodded.

  
Eddie sighed, leaned back against the chair.

“I don’t think he’d chance it then.”

He held out a hand, gestured.

“If you’d d…” He swallowed, continued. “…he wouldn’t have wanted to linger. I don’t think he wanted to leave you in a state to run or do much anything. If he went after her, might’ve drawn too much attention to himself.”

  
“So, you think he left her alone?”

  
“Aye.”

  
Campbell nodded, shallow and careful of his aching head, a small smile passing his lips.

“Least then she’s okay.”

He looked over at Eddie, smile wavering.

“M’sorry that I worried ya. I mean it that I didn’t expect any of this to happen. Didn’t think it’d go this far.”

  
Eddie paused, then raggedly sighed and assented with a nod.

“Just need you to promise me, then,” His eyes shifted back to Campbell. “that you won’t pull another stunt like this.”

His gaze softened as he continued.

“You meant well. You have a good heart, Campbell. But least for my sake, and the others, we can’t have you getting beaten up all the time.”

  
“Guess I’m glad I never wanted to be a superhero. Not since I was five at least.” Campbell chuckled, sniffed, and gingerly tapped his nose.

  
“But you did good. And, well, at the least, I appreciate you for caring that much.” Eddie’s eyebrows raised and he shrugged. “More than I can say for most people.”

  
“Course I care. For my friends, I’d go through all this again. In a heartbeat.” Campbell grinned.

  
“Well, let’s try not to have that then.” Eddie nodded with a smirk.

He stood and reached for his coat.

“Have to get going. Lunch hour is almost up.”

  
“When can I go back?” Campbell asked.

  
“Uh…nurse said they want you another day. Maybe two. They’re worried about concussion.”

  
“Oh.” Campbell sank against the bed, looking the most downtrodden he’d looked that visit.

  
Eddie slipped his coat on, glanced away in thought and nodded.

“They’d let everyone have crayolas, yeah?”

“They’re not sharp, so probably. Why?”

  
Eddie shrugged.

“Just curious.”

  
Later that evening, Eddie returned for another visit, cards nearly overflowing from his arms, all with ‘get well’ messages for Campbell.

His little cot in the A&E became the most decorated, easily the most colorful.

And Campbell couldn’t be happier about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it was hard to write campbell getting beat up :( poor guy


	30. 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 29 - Reluctant Bedrest [sort of]
> 
> After Ellie is stopped from taking her life, Hardy tries to understand how it all came to this.
> 
> CW: MAJOR CHARACTER SUICIDE ATTEMPT [failed], mechanical restraints, depressive thoughts
> 
> If you need help, please call the National Suicide Prevention Hotline: 1-800-273-8255

He hated hospitals.

  
Always had, and while the recent years had only emboldened his hatred of them, today.

_This moment_.

Might be when he hated them most.

  
He stretched, urged blood back to sleepy limbs, in his chair, uncomfortable, stiff, and cheap.

He could get up, walk around, but he couldn’t leave.

Couldn’t leave _her_.

  
…

Perhaps that was it.

  
He hated hospitals when he was the patient.

But being there as a visitor was comparable to _hell_.

Because there was so much you didn’t know.

Not that you necessarily knew more as the patient, but when he was in the bed, he felt a sort of peace.

  
Or resignation.

  
One of the two.

  
Either way, it hadn’t bothered him whether the prognosis was good or bad, whether the outlook was certain or not, he just needed to know _when_ he was leaving.

And, to his luck, he’d usually know.

Or he would simply discharge himself.

Same diff.

  
Such wealth of information wasn’t an offering this time around.

  
He was the outsider.

  
And the variables all remained within _her_.

  
Variables, just hours earlier, he thought he’d known, cut and dry.

  
Now…

  
…

  
His hand cupped over his mouth as he forced himself to look, _actually_ look, and acknowledge reality.

No matter how bitter it was.

No matter his opinions.

His judgement.

No matter.

  
\--

  
_They said that, under normal protocol, he wouldn’t be allowed near her._

_“Too dangerous.”_

_“Possibility of harm.”_

_“Security.”_

_  
He’d pulled whatever strings necessary because, damnit, he_ wasn’t _going to leave her alone._

_Not again._

_  
They said he could only visit if he acted as a monitor and would have to leave once the orderly arrived to take over._

_  
Fine._

_  
They warned him, said that the procedures for sensitive and high-risk patients wasn’t pretty, could be disturbing._

_  
Fine._

_  
They asked again if –_

_  
“I am a detective. I can bloody well handle monitoring.” He’d growled. “Now either let me see her or get the hell out of my way.”_

_  
He supposed he should’ve been kinder, more polite._

_This ward wasn’t easy._

_But he also didn’t regret what he’d said._

_He had to see her._

_They’d led him down the hall, past rooms flushed with activity, to a single, private room._

_There was a sign posted in the window._

_  
“SUICIDE WATCH”_

_  
“Press the call button if you need anything, or if it gets too much.”_

_  
“Right.” He’d responded and pushed forward._

_He crossed the thoroughfare, and it was like the air had been sucked out of the room._

_No sound._

_No movement._

_No_ life _._

_  
Except, there was._

_There_ she _was._

_On the bed._

_In hospital gown._

_Kept to the bed with mechanical –_

_  
_\--

_  
_…

It hadn’t gotten easier.

Not in the passing minutes.

Not even as a half hour nearly passed.

To take in the image of her.

Of _Miller_.

Strapped to a bed.

Unconscious.

Sedated.

  
It was wrong in a visceral, unnamable way and he _despised_ the feeling.

  
He’d give anything to ensure this scene never played out again.

  
Because, no, this _wasn’t_ Miller.

  
None of this was.

  
Miller was vibrant, sociable.

Irksome in her ability to emotionally resonate with others, to willingly compromise case security if it meant bringing the meagerest peace of mind to their victims.

A dedicated detective.

Firm, resilient, uncompromising.

The only one he’d ever work with.

His closest friend.

  
…

Damnit, how’d everything end up here?

  
None of it made sense, but the aching guilt within _mocked_ him for not looking closer because there _had_ to have been signs.

Clues.

Tells.

_Anything_.

  
“ _For God’s sake, aren’t I a bloody detective?!_ ”

  
He burrowed his face into his hands, unable to bear the sight of her for a moment longer.

As he gained his reprieve, the lurking guilt, regret, self-blame was stoked further.

_What will she say to you, when she realizes you can barely look at her right now?_

_How will_ she _feel being strapped to the bed like that?_

_It’s not_ you _._

_Aren’t you here to support her?_

_How can you help her when you can barely manage yourself?_

_  
_…

  
_How can you help her when you missed_ everything _?_

_  
_“ _Shut up._ ” He hissed as his palms dug into his eyes, fruitlessly attempting to block out the thoughts.

He sucked in a sharp breath, breathed a ragged exhale as his resolution threatened to fail.

His fingers clawed through his hair, bore into his scalp, body stiff as he stayed like that.

Because to do anything else felt monumental.

To do anything else _well_.

And to be frank, he’d screwed up enough that day.

Best to take a stay.

  
Someone cleared their throat and pulled Hardy’s attention away.

  
“My turn for watch.” Said the orderly with a friendly smile. “Look like you could use a break.”

  
His hands fell to his lap as he sighed.

“Ah, no. I mean, thank you. But I’m g…I’m fine.”

  
“Protocol requires a swap for monitoring duty.”

  
“I can’t leave her.”

  
“I understand, but we do need to swap.” The orderly bit his lip. “You know. Protocol. Um.”

  
Hardy didn’t budge, leveled the orderly with an expression between a glower and pleading.

  
“…how about this? She wakes up, you can take back over. Promise, uh – “

  
“DI Hardy.”

  
“Thank you. You have my word, DI Hardy. Soon as she wakes, you’ll be first to talk with her.”

  
_If_ she wakes.

He shook the thought out.

  
“Alright?”

  
“Yeah.” He blinked. “Yeah, uh, good.”

  
“Cafeteria is still open. Maybe a tea will do you good?” suggested the orderly.

  
“Ta. Might…might do that.” Said Hardy as he shakily stood.

He was loath to leave her, to turn his eyes away.

Even while he left, he still didn’t turn until it was absolutely necessary, lest he embarrass himself by running headfirst into a door.

  
And even once he managed to leave the room, the churning, acidic guilt boiled in his stomach and left him without the mite of an appetite for anything, tea included.

  
\--

  
_PCs had been called to the scene first._

_  
That had been before the jumper had been identified._

_  
As soon as her name crossed Jenkinson’s lips, he was off towards the cliffs, bundling himself into a car with barked orders to_ drive _, speed limit be damned._

_Because no, no,_ no _, this wasn’t happening._

_This couldn’t be real._

_  
When the car skidded to a stop, he nearly tumbled out of the car, propelling himself towards the reflective uniforms and multiple silhouettes, but primarily towards_ one _silhouette._

_One who stood, barely, three steps back from the cliff’s edge._

_Three steps to the point of no return._

_He pushed through uniforms, all who cried warnings as he barreled through, but he fought the urge to rush and immediately yank her away from the cliff._

_“Miller!”_

_  
If you hadn’t known what to look for, you’d be understood in mistaking Ellie of having no reaction._

_Her back remained towards the officers, towards Hardy, hair fluttering in the wind._

_She didn’t move, no twitch of the hand or lift of the head._

_No, for all intents and purposes, she was like a stone._

_Except, Hardy_ did _know what to look for._

_And he saw her reaction in the faintest uptick of her shoulders, the stiffening of her body._

What _it all meant…he had a few guesses._

_None he wanted to vocalize or even consider._

_  
“Go away, Hardy.” She finally spoke. God, her voice was unrecognizable, tight and wispy even as she demanded him to leave. “I don’t want you here.”_

_  
“I don’t want you here either.” Hardy’s hands gripped and loosened, balled at nothing._

_He swallowed, though his mouth was bone dry._

_“Step away from the cliff.” He continued in a quieter voice._

_  
She lingered._

_  
“Step_ away _from the cliff, Miller.”_

_  
She took a step forward._

_  
“Step aw – that’s an_ order _, Miller! Mill – “_

_The glare, furrowed knot his brows had formed, weakened._

_He stumbled forward, tried to bridge the gap._

_Did the calculations for whether he could grab her if she tried to take the final two steps._

_Concluded that talking her down was his only option._

_“– Miller,_ please _.”_

_  
Blessedly, she did not take another step._

_But she also didn’t step back._

_She remained at her position, standing precariously by the ledge, back to him and the world._

_  
He stood, searching around, as if the grass would offer a solution._

_Tried to dig through his brain for his old de-escalation training._

_“Miller,”_

_He chewed his lip and tried to steady his voice._

_Cleared his throat._

_“I, uh, I mean. This_ week _hasn’t been fun, has it? But I heard…”_

_He ran a hand through his hair._

_“…you like Marvel movies, right? I – well, I heard a lot of people do. I-I don’t know. I don’t watch…movies.”_

_His mouth ran dry._

_  
She didn’t respond._

_  
“You_ mentioned _” He flailed for topics. “a-a pub. Some pub, said it was good, the…the…”_

_He snapped his fingers, searched for the name, but all that came up was PANIC._

_“I-I don’t remember.” He admitted, eye boring their plea into her back. “What was it? It’ll drive me crazy. Need to know. We could…go. Together. Tonight?”_

_  
All he received was Ellie standing, stalk straight, tense like piano wire, as she sighed._

_“I know what you’re doing, Hardy.” She answered, voice soft. “Won’t work.”_

_Her head lowered, eyes down to gaze at the beach below._

_“I made my mind. You can’t stop me.”_

_  
“Isn’t there?” He blurted. He swallowed. “Di – we could try.”_

_  
She didn’t move._

_  
“Please, Miller. I – “His eyes started to water. “– I’ll do anything.”_

_He snuck a step forward._

_“Know you think I’m a hard ass and y-you’re not wrong. I’m difficult. I know. But_ believe me _, I do care. And you have my_ vow _that I will do everything possible to help you. You won’t be alone; we can do this together.”_

_He took another step._

_“You shouldn’t have to be alone through this, Miller.”_

_  
Her head hung low, drooped the rest of the way, and he heard her sigh._

_“This is why I didn’t want you here.”_

_She stilled._

_“Don’t need you to make this difficult.”_

_  
“Mill –_ Ellie _, I – “_

_  
“_ Don’t _.” She hissed, warned._

_  
“Ellie, come back over here. Please. I want to help you.”_

_  
“And how many times do I have to tell you?! I don’t_ want _your help!” She cried._

_Her hands balled into fists at her sides._

_“I don’t want, and don’t need it! I-I know_ exactly _what I’m doing here and believe me! I’ve thought this through enough! What I need to do involves this cliff and_ me _at the bottom of it! And you can’t change a damn thing about that!”_

_  
Hardy’s face drained of blood, legs wobbling._

_“Y-Your boys, Ellie. W-What about – “_

_“Changed my will. Lucy gets guardianship. They’ll be better off.”_

_  
“With Lucy?!”_

_  
“I know it’s not perfect, but what else do I have?!”_

_  
“You could stay! Here! Alive and with your boys!” Hardy cried, one hand near his tie as he continued to process the will bit._

_  
She shook her head and, for the first time that conversation, she pivoted towards him, looked over her shoulder._

_And –_

_  
Hardy’s legs threatened to buckle because he_ knew _that look._

_He’d had it on his face before, years ago._

_Resignation._

_A desire for things to simply_ end _._

_All he could wonder is how he hadn’t_ noticed _._

_  
Had he been so clueless?_

_  
She only shook her head, her own expression straining and tightening, eyes clinking with tears._

_She sucked in a hiccupped breath and exhaled._

_“No.”_

_She started another step._

_  
It wasn’t just a punch to the gut._

_He wouldn’t have been surprised if it tore through his torso, left a gaping hole where it landed._

_“E-Ellie…” He begged as she started to turn._

_  
She hadn’t the chance to do anything else before a PC rushed ahead, previously unseen, and snatched her into his arms._

_She screamed, thrashed, pleaded and demanded to be let go, to finish what she started._

_She was handed off to awaiting paramedics, who poked her with a syringe as she continued to fight, even as she was strapped to a gurney._

_Her struggles slowed, screams transitioning to tears, slowing to quiet murmurs as the sedative settled in._

_  
One paramedic threw a trauma blanket around Hardy’s shoulders, eased him to his feet._

_Had he collapsed?_

_He couldn’t remember._

_“Let me go with her.”_

_  
“I-I’m sorry, but usual protocol is that – “_

_  
“I’m her partner.”_

_Not exactly a fib, but not the truth either._

_  
“W-Well, I was about to say, we would allow you to ride along, but in the case of suicidal patients, we’re concerned about your safety.”_

_  
“Not leaving her.”_

_  
“You can follow the ambulance.” The paramedic offered._

_  
Hardy could only nod, distantly, as another PC guided him down the cliffs, to the awaiting cars._

_  
The paramedic climbed into the ambulance and they rushed off, Hardy’s car in close pursuit._

\--

  
The hour spent in the cafeteria, nibbling a biscuit and sipping at lukewarm tea, would’ve been the longest in his life, if it hadn’t been for the last few hours.

  
He walked down the hallway, Styrofoam cup in hand, right as the orderly poked his head out the doorway.

  
“DI Hardy!” He called. “She’s awake.”

  
He nearly dropped the cup as he ran.

His shoes skidded as he slid through the doorway, not giving the orderly much along acknowledgement or thanks.

He speed-walked, reached his chair and took his post once more.

Just in time to catch Miller as she moved.

  
Her eyes blinked slowly, blearily.

Low groans slipped from her lips as she tried to stretch her limbs, attempt quickly halted by the click of the straps.

The slow process of waking snapped to its conclusion, full awareness onset as her gaze flipped to the wrist restraints, then the ankle restraints.

She grumbled, fought at the straps, tugged and yanked at them with no success, the restraints holding her with little struggle.

  
“I’m sorry.” He said, more under his breath than anything.

  
Somehow, however, she heard him and, for the first time since they’d arrived, she acknowledged him.

Her eyes darted over, pupils shrinking as she took him in.

“Hardy?”

  
“Miller.” He greeted with quiet voice.

  
Her movements slowed, wrists going slack above her head, already red from her struggling.

A frown crossed her face, eyes flitting between him and her wrist restraints.

The request didn’t have to be voiced.

  
“I-I don’t think I have a say about that.”

  
“Horse shite. You’re a detective, man of the law. You have sway.”

  
“Not a man of medicine though. Can’t tell the doctors what to do.” His lips thinned. “Don’t think I’d want to either.”

  
“Bet you don’t like this. Don’t like this bout as much as I do.” She paused, then shrugged. “Well, not bout as much. You can do something about it.”

  
“ _Don’t_ , Miller.” His eyes squeezed shut as he shook his head. “Don’t start.”

  
“What then? You think this is okay? Them strapping me to a bed like this? Can’t stretch my arms proper!”

  
“I don’t think it’s okay.” He hissed. “But – “

  
“But what??”

  
“I don’t – “He grimaced, folded his hands onto his lap as he leaned forward. “ – don’t think it’s a good…idea.”

  
She blinked slowly.

“Not a good idea.”

  
He shook his head.

  
She sighed, laid her head against the pillow and directed her gaze to the ceiling.

“What if I told you I’m fine now? That change anything?”

  
“Is that the truth?”

  
She didn’t answer.

And it only made his heart ache further.

  
There was silence for a time, the intensity deepening with the prolonged lack of eye contact, the lack of her acknowledgement.

He wasn’t stupid; he knew that the chances of her being willing to talk, openly and honestly, about whatever brought her to the cliff, would be low.

Especially so soon.

As someone who prided himself on being logical, he didn’t take it personally and tried not to feel the pain of her frustration, how it felt partly directed at him.

He really did.

  
He wasn’t sure why he was failing so badly.

  
At some point, the tension in Ellie’s frame dissipated, and she was the one to break the silence.

“Why did you stop me?”

  
His cracked heart broke further.

His gaze shot up, heel bobbing idly as distraction.

  
Her gaze slid back to him, her face still turned to the ceiling, though it too slowly joined her eyes.

“I didn’t want you to, and you shouldn’t have.”

He swallowed his gut reaction: a pained sob.

He had to remain resilient.

“You don’t really think I’d have _allowed_ you to jump, would you? Without doing anything?”

  
A conflicted light puzzled in her eyes as she blinked.

She didn’t answer.

  
“You have to know I wouldn’t stand back.” His voice thinned. “I couldn’t let you do that, Miller.”

  
“You should’ve though.” She insisted. “Would’ve been better.”

  
“ _How_ – “His voice broke. He stifled a different noise as he breathed, slowly, through his nose, steadying his breath. “– it wouldn’t have, Miller.”

His knees knocked together.

“I-I – “

A hand flew into his hair.

“– I just don’t understand.”

  
Her expression softened, lingered on Hardy.

“Didn’t want you to worry.”

  
“Didn’t want me to – “

  
“Didn’t want _anyone_ to worry bout me.” She admitted softly. Her fingers traced the restraint’s band.

  
His gaze shot up and the battle to control his tears was swiftly being lost.

“Miller, I need you to be honest with me. _Please_.” He swallowed. “How long?”

He threaded and clenched his fingers together.

“How long have you felt like this?”

  
_How long have I missed the clues?_

_  
_She shook her head.

  
“ _Miller_.”

  
Her shaking stopped.

“Few months.”

  
It was like the air was punched from his lungs.

_Months_.

Months of something that left her feeling like this.

And he’d missed it.

He tented his hands over his nose and mouth.

  
Ellie’s teeth bore into her lips.

“Christ look what I’ve done. I didn’t want you to worry and now…I’m sorry.”

She shook her head, muttered inaudible words to herself.

“I’m so sorry.”

  
“Why didn’t you tell me?”

  
Her gaze snapped back to him.

“…this all falls in the soppy category, doesn’t it? We don’t – “

  
“ _Fuck_ it if it’s soppy, Mil… _Ellie_. You almost died today.” His hands slipped away and revealed a stricken look strewn across his face. “You could’ve _died_.”

He shook his head fervently, ran a hand down his face.

Cleared his throat.

“You…you need to come to me. In the future. _Tell_ me as soon as you feel the urge to do this, if you do again.”

The firmness of his voice was all too unstable.

“Alright?”

  
Ellie’s gaze averted.

Nevertheless, she gave a firm nod.

“Right.”

Another stab to the heart.

He swallowed the thick in his throat.

Lowered his head.

Spoke carefully.

“…you don’t have to deal with this alone. Not something I’d wish upon anyone, least of all you.”

  
“Said that on the cliff already. And to that: pot meet kettle.”

  
His eyes fell shut as he ignored her retort.

“A-And I know that working through this isn’t any easier.”

He took a breath.

“So, I’d like to help you.”

He lifted his head once more, eyes still stricken but the rest of him composed once more, if not soppy.

“Only if that’s okay with you.”

  
Her gaze ripped through him, hands gripped into balls, lips thin.

“What if I’m not ready?” She answered softly. “Not ready to get…get better?”

She winced.

“I-I know it sounds fucking _stupid_ , but – “

  
“Then I’d like to be with you. Regardless.” He affirmed. “If it’d be okay with you.”

  
“I just said I might not want to get better, how do you still want to _deal_ with this?”

  
“You’re my _friend_ , Miller.” He answered. “Closest friend, _only_ friend if you want.”

  
“Christ – “

  
“That means I do care about you. Might not look like it always, but I do. Always.”

  
A flicker of something unnamable crossed her face, something between touched and confused, denial yet relief.

She laid back, limp, only looking away as an orderly entered.

  
“Sorry, DI Hardy? Been asked to send you home. Need to complete evaluations and monitoring now that Mrs. Miller is up.”

  
He nodded and stood, looking over at Ellie.

“I’ll bring grapes next time. Or prefer chocolates?”

  
She frowned, own gaze fixed upon him even as he started to leave, to allow the orderlies and nurses to do their work.

Just as he was about to leave, about to pass through the doorway, she spoke up.

“Chocolates would…would be nice.”

  
He paused, looked back over with a managed smile.

“I’ll pick some up at the shops then.”

He watched as the orderly loosened the strap, freed the left arm and tended to the friction burns.

  
Then left the hospital, off to speak with Tom and Fred.

He wasn’t ready for the conversation; he hadn’t the foggiest how he’d go about it with Tom, let alone Fred as young as he is.

  
But he knew that, at minimum, he’d assert to them that they’d work together.

That their mom needed them.

And that they’d be there for her no matter what.

And then, things may get better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was so hard to write. i went back n forth on whether i handled this well bc the topic of suicide can be written in not great ways n didnt want to contribute to that. its vague bc i still wasnt sure how much was too much and what made sense in context.
> 
> idk i hope its enjoyable at least and PLEASE let me know any criticisms or concerns bc i am happy to fix and add things to make it more sensitive or accurate.
> 
> plz know you're not alone and that its okay to ask for help, even if it doesnt feel like it.
> 
> National Suicide Prevention Hotline: 1-800-273-8255


	31. Proper Care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 30 - Wound Reveal/Ignoring an Injury
> 
> Continuation of Day 14 - Proper Angel
> 
> Aziraphale hasn't been around for days. Crowley soon finds out why Aziraphale's been hiding.
> 
> CW: blood, infection, self-loathing, self-blaming, referenced branding, referenced abuse

Sometimes, pinning the angel’s location was a bit touch and go.

  
Fact of life, of course.

He didn’t expect them to be stapled at the hip.

  
Still, when he was hoping for his company, it was a tad inconvenient.

Such as recently.

  
He knew that Aziraphale had been called to Heaven for a meeting, the usual check in, a few weeks ago.

He’d taken the necessary precautions, giving himself and Aziraphale space until Heaven’s not-so-proverbial eyes had laxed their attention, before he’d slink in to help the angel de-stress with dinner and exorbitant amounts of alcohol.

That was the plan, at least.

And he had, like always, popped by the moment he figured Heaven had stopped paying attention, wouldn’t notice the demonic presence hovering near their earthly representative.

  
But Aziraphale hadn’t been home.

  
Not a huge deal, this had happened before.

Sometimes to further ease Heaven’s suspicions, Aziraphale would take up an assignment and make himself scarce, appease his superiors and earn a little more grace.

So, he gave another two days.

Popped back by the bookshop.

  
Aziraphale wasn’t home again.

  
Crowley, at that point, did start to wonder, if not worry.

He’d knocked at the door, searched around with his demonic senses, just to double check.

But indeed, the angel’s essence was nowhere to be found, and what traces he’d left behind in the bookshop had faded.

And even the traces felt…wrong.

Almost sterilized, the bits that were distinctly Aziraphale, scent distinctly corduroy, warmth cozy, nothing more than background.

  
And _that’s_ what made him worry.

  
He tried again another two days later.

Wine and a box of Aziraphale’s favorite pastries in hand, he strode up to the bookshop, silently hoping (not praying) that the angel was in this time.

He stretched his senses out as he approached the door.

  
He could’ve sighed; Aziraphale was in, though the sensation of his signature still felt too sterile.

But he was present.

He reached for the doorknob, expecting it to readily open because, well, it always had.

  
Only for the door to rattle, lock protesting to his actions, the bell inside rattling dimly.

  
“The hell – “He muttered.

The door had _never_ been locked to him.

He laid a palm against the wood and recoiled.

A whiff of holiness followed and left his palm red, though luckily stinging only slightly.

“ _Wards. He bloody warded the shop_ _against demons._ ” He thought, teeth piercing his lip.

It’s possible that the angel had absentmindedly warded against _all_ demons, forgetting to add an exception for Crowley.

  
Possible, except that this would be the _first_ instance of such an issue in the hundreds of years their Arrangement has existed, and the first since Aziraphale bought the bookshop.

“Aziraphale?” He called, rapping his knuckles against the door despite the pain.

His gaze slipped to the left to look through the windows.

There were a few lights on, but little to no movement.

He sensed around and, while finding Aziraphale’s signature, found no other angelic presences.

“I know you’re home, angel! Mind letting me in?”

  
Nothing.

  
Crowley crooked his mouth, sauntered back to take in all of A.Z. Fell & Co’s.

He set down the wine and pastries to fumble for his mobile, pulling it out and prodding Aziraphale’s contact.

He pulled the phone to his ear, listened for any movement inside the aged building.

He could hear the ringing of Aziraphale’s phone, the metallic chime that could only be produced by real metal pieces, not canned instrumentation.

The bookshop’s phone rang, and rang, and rang, and rang.

Far longer than Aziraphale usually let it go.

Crowley frowned, hung up, and dialed again.

Again, the phone rang, the brazen chime ringing through the dampened bookshop and onto the front stoop, ringing once, twice, three times, _four_ times.

“Come on, angel…” He mumbled.

  
A click.

  
“ _I’m afraid we’re closed for the foreseeable future_.” Answered the familiar voice. “ _Do please call again at a later date_.”

  
“ _Angel_ , it’s me.”

  
A pause.

“ _…Crowley? Oh, oh dear, terribly sorry. I didn’t realize it was you calling_.”

  
“Water under the bridge. Look, you happen to put up some fresh warding on the shop lately? Cause I can’t get in.”

  
“ _Hm? Oh, oh yes, I believe I did. Best to take proper precautions, don’t you agree? Would prefer to avoid any unwelcome attacks in the future, though those have not occurred, I assure you_.”

  
“Yeah, got you. Completely. Should shore up the wards at my place.” He nodded, wondering if Aziraphale could see him. “Anyways, I might have something drinkable with me. Something around, oh, a Sicilian vintage. 1918. Good year. Hate to let it go to waste.”

  
Another pause.

“ _Er…well, as lovely as that sounds, another time, perhaps?_ ”

  
Crowley tried to muddle how thoroughly he deflated.

“Uh, sure. Yeah, can do. Busy?”

  
“ _Y-Yes, quite_.”

Something thudded in the bookshop.

“ _Terribly so_.”

  
“Heaven’s been working you like mad.” Crowley noted with a note of sympathy. “Seems like you’ve had assignments for the last week straight.”

He bit his lip and straightened.

“Not that I’d care, of course. Nuisance if anything. You, angel, spreading your good deeds all over the place. Darn you.”

  
“ _Of course. Must be a…a…_ ”

  
Crowley’s brow furrowed as he heard Aziraphale gulp a breath.

“Angel? Everything alright?”

“ _Oh? Erm,_ ”

The rest of response stalled for a solid minute.

“ _y-yes. Perfectly tickety-boo. Uh, but perhaps we could…could…_ ”

There was another crash in the bookshop.

“ _…pick up this conversation another day? I-I’m afraid I’m terribly busy –_ “

  
“Aziraphale, what’s with all the noise?” Crowley tried to peer through the windows, but Aziraphale must be deeper in the shop.

  
“ _Oh! Oh that. Er, organizing furniture. That’s it. Moving things to the front of the shop. Nice change of pace_.”

  
“Uh huh. Angel, I’m _at_ the bookshop, remember? I can see through your windows and I don’t see anything moved around.”

  
“ _Well, I just started! Can’t expect me to have much done when I’ve just begun_.”

  
“You’re an angel though. You could just miracle it where you want.”

  
A pause.

“ _That would be frivolous of me, wouldn’t it? No…oh no, couldn’t do that. T-T-That is, well, simply…_ ”

Another crash.

  
“I’m coming in, Angel.” Crowley darted around the side of the bookshop.

  
“ _O-Oh no. No, no that won’t be necessary. Tip-top, I am. Simply, perfectly,_ ineffably _…_ ”

There was some feedback over the line, the sound of muffled thumping and clattering that sounded like the smallest of the crashes but no less concerning.

“ _…oh, bother_.” Aziraphale’s voice was further away.

  
“Angel, are you able to lower the wards? Or, I don’t know, do you leave a gap anywhere -?” Crowley’s hands searched the brickwork, recoiling every other brick from the holy energy.

  
“ _Not an effective ward if it has holes, dear boy_.”

  
“Erk, I _know_ , but – “He crouched around the base of the building, patting at the lowest bricks. “– sort of running out of options and _hoping_ for more to work with.”

  
“ _Terribly sorry to inconvenience you_.”

  
Crowley stopped, frowned.

Growled as he ramped up his effort, pawing around rubbish bags and discarded cardboard.

“Come on, you always leave a gap. _Always_ something I can use if things turn turtle. Erg, why turtles? What do _turtles_ have to do with things going to shit?”

  
“What do _pears_ have to do with it eitherrrrohdear…”

  
“Ah! Ha! Knew it!” Crowley grinned as he found it, a gap in the wards no bigger than a can of soup.

Too small for a normal demon, but for Crowley?

  
He slipped free of his humanoid form, going serpent before slinking through the gap, slithering forward and up through the floorboards.

He slunk around shelving, eyes and tongue flitting for even a thread of his angel, sliding around fallen books and a broken teacup (one of the crashes he assumed).

“Angel?” He hissed.

He wove through a carpet, past the well-used loveseat and familiar coffee table.

“Angel?”

He rose from under the table.

  
And there was the angel.

Looking rather pallid and slumped against a table, the phone dangling by its cord.

He shot back into his human form and to Aziraphale’s side.

“Angel?? Angel!”

Aziraphale’s face was terribly flushed where it wasn’t pale.

Worried eyes examined his friend as he tried to lift Aziraphale onto his feet, only for the angel to nearly collapse back onto the floor.

  
“Oopsie.”

  
Crowley bit back an angered exclamation, some level of exasperation at how his angel can be…well, such _his angel_ even when obviously unwell.

He clasped onto his shoulders and circled around to face Aziraphale head on.

“Alright Aziraphale. Stay with me. We’re going to figure this out, right? Get you better, but you need to stay upright. Just for a moment, get you to the couch. Can you manage that?”

  
“Hmprf”

  
“Alright, good enough.” Crowley uttered an ‘oomph’ as he lifted Aziraphale fully upright, feet roughly planted on the floor. “You got it from here?”

  
“Hrnf.”

  
“Taking that as a ‘no’.” Crowley sighed as his lips thinned. “Right, sorry Angel, but gonna have to move you around a bit.”

He slung one of Aziraphale’s arms around his shoulders, his own arm snaking around to grip Aziraphale’s back and side.

  
All at once, awareness leapt onto Aziraphale’s face, eyes shooting wide and pupils shrinking.

His legs collapsed and he yelped, loud and high-pitched, his other hand clawing at Crowley’s chest.

“Let go, let go, let go, let go – “

  
“Ow! Ow, alright! Alright, letting you…the floor it is.” Crowley, despite Aziraphale’s desperation, didn’t allow him to crumple to the ground, but rather guided him steadily until Aziraphale sat with his legs folded beneath him.

He took in the sweat that beaded on the angel’s forehead, how heavily he panted despite keeping a look of embarrassment, eyes averted from him.

  
“S-Sorry about that.”

  
“You’re hurt. You’re injured and – _damnit_ – I didn’t notice. I _should’ve_.”

  
“Isn’t possibly your fault, dear boy.”

  
“Where are you hurt? Ribs?” Crowley was examining Aziraphale like a fussy hen, fingers pressing gently at various spots along Aziraphale’s sides.

  
Were Aziraphale more himself, he might’ve pinked at the sudden onslaught of contact, but this was neither the time nor the place.

“Um, no those are fine. I think.”

He was certain Sandalphon had exercised the care not to break his ribs.

Wouldn’t be a useful angel with broken ribs.

_Not that he was much better with_ intact _ribs_.

He shook off the thought.

“I-It’s the back, I’m afraid. Took a little tumble, might’ve bruised something.”

His tongue curdled at his response.

  
Crowley had removed his sunglasses to (he supposed) better examine his friend, fingers now gliding over to Aziraphale’s midback.

“Here?”

He pressed.

  
“ _Yes._ ” Aziraphale bit out.

  
Crowley’s hand slid up and down, pressing intermittently and, while Aziraphale didn’t confirm additional bruising, his eyes lowered at how stiffly the angel sat and how he sharply inhaled at every touch.

“Bruised your _whole_ back?”

  
“Was quite the fall.”

Crowley’s gaze remained unspeakably worried, eyes widened and surveying Aziraphale for anything else, anything to help him help his angel.

His gaze lowered further as he took in Aziraphale’s flushed complexion.

He pressed the back of his hand to his forehead and recoiled.

“ _Christ_ , Angel, you’re boiling.”

  
“Best not to blaspheme, dear.”

  
“Blasph – Angel, you think I care about that right now? What the bloody heaven happened to you?”

  
“Certainly, nothing so terrible, Crowley, that would require blaspheming.” Aziraphale tutted, his attempt weakened by how he swayed.

And weakened further as, without warning, he tipped forward, right into Crowley’s arms.

“T-Thank you. Greatly appreciated, dear.”

  
Crowley nodded, but his lips remained stressed, a bit of his fang poking out.

“Right, first things first. You have a fever. Need to cool you down.”

He gripped his angel’s arms as he spared a short look around him.

“Maybe give your bruises a look while I’m at it.”

  
Aziraphale’s eyes widened.

“O-Oh? Well, it’s just bruising. Bit of rest and ice and I’ll be right as rain.”

  
“And you can’t ice it anyways with all those layers on.” Crowley’s lips thinned. “Might as well multitask, gonna use ice to cool you down anyways.”

He started to guide Aziraphale upward.

“Think you could manage a miracle? Or need to do this the human way?”

  
“I-I-I really am quite certain, Crowley, that I just need to rest. No need to ice or take off my clothes and _really now_ , you are a demon, but this is a bit on the nose don’t you – “

  
Crowley frowned.

“Angel.”

  
Aziraphale’s mouth clamped shut.

  
“It’s not just bruising, is it?”

  
Aziraphale’s eyes widened.

  
“Something else?”

  
“N-No.” Aziraphale insisted, twisting his ring. “It’s bruising. Just that. Nothing more. _Please_.”

  
Crowley gave a slow nod, sighed and shook his head.

“Right. Okay. Sorry, I pushed too hard. I’ll drop it, okay? Won’t talk about what happened or how you fell. We’ll just focus on getting your fever down.”

  
Aziraphale’s expression melted, fixed into a downward look of averted eyes and guilty frown, hands wringing together.

  
“Fever…how do humans get fevers? Colds, flus. Can angels even _get_ flus? Thought we were immune to that nasty business, but I guess if you were…you haven’t run into _other_ demons, have you? You haven’t been cursed? Suppose _that_ could get you sick – “

  
“It’s not a demonic curse.” Aziraphale blurted. “It’s Heaven.”

He lifted his hand.

“I lied, Crowley. I’m so sorry.”

He snapped.

And with it, all the evidence of his recent visit to Heaven, his recent ‘evaluation’ with the Archangels, was exposed with his torso.

  
It sent Crowley reeling backwards and made Aziraphale regret not turning Crowley around.

Because he was _first_ confronted with the _brand_.

  
It was still there, reddened and angry, now covered with white scabbing, the shape of the insignia puffy but legible.

There was discoloration around the skin, too dark a red to be healthy, and dried blood around the innermost sections.

The shape, roughly, was of four angel wings, forming a diamond.

Cut across was an Enochian word.

_Redēmptum_.

  
Aziraphale hid his face, lowered it not just to obscure his own tears from Crowley, but so he did not have to take in the _disgust_ he knew would be across his face.

“I-I know. I shouldn’t have lied. An angel isn’t supposed to lie and…oh, I _did_. To your face. I-I…I suppose that’s partly _why_ I have this…this reminder. I promise you, Crowley, it’s for the best I have this and it’s to _make me better_. How did Gabriel – like your little cellular device! It’s a reminder. A gift. T-To not…screw up.”

Tears slipped down his nose.

“I brought it on myself. Messed up too often and, oh, no angel messes up like I do. You know, I’m not _supposed_ to make mistakes. Angel and all and…and, well, this was the solution.”

He wrung his hands together.

“N-Now, anytime I consider stepping out of line, o-or disrupt the Great Plan, I just need to look down and…and there i-i-it is! I’ll remember, a-and do better. I’ll be a better angel. Proper one.”

His vision blurred and his shaking hand raised to clear it.

“O-Oh and there I go. Crying. I’m so sorry you had to see this.”

  
A hand reached out, cupped his chin.

Gently tilted his face upward.

And immediately he took in –

“Oh…oh no. Oh, Crowley, are you alright, dear?”

Crowley’s pupils were shrunk to mere lines, yellow eclipsing white, a tension through his face that should’ve shattered his bones yet didn’t.

He was shaking.

His lips were drawn into a line, with small sounds slipping past of unknown quality.

As he wrenched his lips apart, a strained cry slipped past.

Yet, Crowley didn’t flinch, didn’t recoil in embarrassment, as Aziraphale might’ve expected.

Which concerned him dearly; why did his friend look so stricken?

Had he not been listening?

  
“A-Angel,” Crowley finally said, but his voice was far drier. Strained and weak. “nothing. I mean it, _nothing_ justifies this. They,”

He swallowed and forced himself to look, but only managed a moment of taking in _the fucking brand_ , the _mark_ across his angel’s skin.

“they scarred you for no reason. None.”

  
“I-I made a mistake, Crowley, there was certainly a reason – “

  
“No. _Fucking_. Reason. Angel!” Crowley cried. He drew Aziraphale’s hands into his and clasped them together. “You…this…you can’t – “

He drew a breath, exhaled raggedly.

“You didn’t deserve this, Aziraphale. No one would, but especially not you.”

  
“I can’t say I agree, dear.” Aziraphale responded with a sad look. “I-I truly did mess up. Badly. I interfered in the Great Plan, and you must understand how important that is for Heaven. I-I thought I knew best, but I understand now that I _didn’t_.”

He gave a short shrug.

“What would a mere Principality know?”

  
“They branded you! They,” Crowley wildly gestured a poking, prodding motion. “stuck you with a glowing stick! Metal! Like cattle!”

As his gaze remained fixed on Aziraphale, and took in how his expression didn’t shift, change, or clear, he faltered and stared in horror.

“You…you know this isn’t right. _Please_ , Angel. What they did to you. If this was done to a human, you wouldn’t stand by.”

  
“Well, no. No, not at all.”

  
“Then why is this okay? W-Why…”

Crowley’s hand flew up over his mouth, stifled an ugly noise that wanted to roll forth.

His breathing, quick and shallow, grew labored with rage as his brow knit deep, pupils widening.

“…I’ll kill them. T-Those arch- _dickheads_ , I’ll kill them. I’ll tear their wings off and beat them silly. I-I-I’ll toss them around by their haloes, I’ll – “

  
“D-Dear, stop! Crowley, that isn’t necessary, don’t say such things!” Aziraphale begged as he tried to rise.

  
“They! _Hurt_ you, Aziraphale. They fucking _tortured_ you, of course I’m gonna say it!” Crowley clasped the sides of Aziraphale’s face, cupped his cheeks. “Angel, you, you, _you_ didn’t deserve any of this! You’re worth more than this, y-you didn’t…you didn’t…”

_You’re worth the world to me._

Crowley sunk back to the floor, onto his knees, hands never leaving Aziraphale as his eyes remained fixed on his.

His trembling remained.

  
Aziraphale reached forward, swept up a tear from Crowley’s eye.

“Dear…are you crying?”

  
“N-No.” Crowley sniffed. “No, m’not. You know I don’t cry.”

  
“Of course.”

  
Crowley wiped away the not-tears and refocused on Aziraphale’s brand, taking in the odd colored ooze and reddened skin.

“T-This looks infected, Angel. You didn’t clean it when you got home?”

  
“Oh, well, cleaning it would defeat the purpose, wouldn’t it? It’s supposed to be a punishment.”

“Nnnngkk, I…uh, here, I’ll – “

He snapped his fingers and a bowl of warm water, mixed with antiseptic, and a towel appeared.

“– I’ll thwart Heaven’s punishment. Demonic like and all…yeah.”

He couldn’t even finish; what was the point given _everything_?

He dipped the rag, wrung out the extra water, and moved in to dab at the brand.

  
Aziraphale flinched, hissed and shook as scabs were dislodged and fresh blood flowed, the smell something awful.

  
“This is gonna scar, Angel. Don’t know if I can do much to help there.”

  
“That’s fine. I…well, they’ll want a scar I suppose. Want to see it.”

  
“Want to see their smug faces smacked across the room.” Crowley growled.

  
“Really now, that isn’t warranted, Crowley. They…they want what’s best for me.”

Aziraphale played with his pinky ring.

“They do, in the end, want me to be the best angel I can be. Improve. Isn’t that good?”

  
Crowley could’ve argued.

Easily.

He _wanted_ to.

But he knew it was a losing battle.

Aziraphale’s psyche, his ‘battered angel’ relationship with Heaven, would have to be addressed another day.

For now, the fever and the infected wounds took precedence.

So, for now, he only grunted and focused on cleaning the brand.

  
Once he felt confident that the wound was cleaned, he applied a burn cream and gauze, bandaging it loosely to allow airflow.

“Your back,” He started as he snapped away the tainted water. “it isn’t bruising, is it? Or is it _more_ than bruising?”

  
Aziraphale, however, didn’t answer, and only kept his eyes away.

  
Crowley swallowed.

“You want tea? Or cocoa? How are you feeling?”

  
“Still a touch lightheaded.” Aziraphale admitted. “But the brand does feel better.”

He chanced a glance and a small smile.

“Thank you.”

  
“Ngk, no, don’t thank me. No good comes from thanking a demon.”

  
“Of course. You’re simply thwarting Heaven’s plans.”

  
“ _Exactly._ Now, onto the back.”

Crowley shuffled on his knees, crossed over with a fresh towel.

  
Aziraphale’s own eyes started to water as he could hear Crowley balk, muffle a pained cry as he took in the sight of Aziraphale’s destroyed back.

  
Because _destroyed_ was exactly what it was.

Lash marks marred nearly every inch of skin, turning pale skin angry, bright red, scabbed badly with clotted blood every other centimeter.

Like the brand, there was odd ooze and skin reddened with infection, but at another scale given the sheer number of wounds, the sheer number of scars.

Even the lightest touch of the wetted towel pulled a groan from Aziraphale, who bit onto his lip to stifle any cries.

  
A hand cupped one of his.

He looked down.

Crowley held his left hand, gave it squeezes as he started dislodging more scabs, washing out lashes still faintly holy.

He squeezed back.

  
“There you go. You’re doing great.” Crowley hushed as blood flowed free, wounds re-irritated as he washed.

  
“I-I don’t feel I am, to be honest.”

  
“You are. You really are.”

Aziraphale bit down on his lip again but couldn’t stop the gasp as a particularly rough lash was dabbed clean, nor the fresh tears that bubbled.

  
“It’s okay, Aziraphale.”

  
“I-It isn’t, though. You’re right. I shouldn’t have waited.” Aziraphale shuddered as he scrubbed away free-flowing tears. “Oh, it’s gotten so much worse, and now _you_ have to care for me – “

  
“ _Stop._ ”

  
Aziraphale hiccupped and dared to look over his shoulder.

And met Crowley’s wide eyes and, oh dear, despite the severe look of concern of…something, they were quite handsome, weren’t they?

_What angel thinks such thoughts?_

_Not a proper one._

He swallowed hard.

  
Crowley set aside the blood-soaked towel, snapped away the bowl without a thought.

He snapped a tube of cream into his hand, squeezed a little out, and started applying it to the lashes.

His free hand cupped Aziraphale’s shoulder, gave it gentle squeezes as he rubbed the cream in.

“No matter what, Aziraphale, you’re not a burden. Not to anyone, and especially not to me. Got it? I’m taking care of you because I _want_ to. You’re not making me do this.”

He squeezed more cream out.

“And yeah, I am mad. I’m mad that you don’t feel you _deserve_ to be cared for because you _do_. You deserve everything and the world.”

  
Aziraphale started to turn pink.

  
“And I’m mad at the wankers who made you feel like this.” He growled as he applied the last of the cream and miracled more gauze and bandages into existence. “They call themselves the good guys, real _cute_. Sounds more like my side.”

He sat upright and gestured at Aziraphale with a roll of medical tape.

“No one, and I mean _no one_ , has the right to make you feel like shit. Right? _No one_. Not a human, not a demon, not some archangel git and I don’t give a _fuck_ if they’re high ranking. They don’t have that right.”

He stopped and, maybe then, took in the look on Aziraphale’s face.

His stern expression weakened, pink crossing his own cheeks.

He finished applying the medical tape and snapped away the medical supplies.

“Bet you wanna lay down. Here, let’s get you to bed.” He mumbled as he helped Aziraphale to his feet.

Maneuvering Aziraphale’s arm around his shoulders, he supported Aziraphale up the staircase and down the rarely travelled hallway, into a bedroom filled with yet more books.

He snapped them away (much to Aziraphale’s disapproval).

“They’re in a back room, properly stored.” He assured.

He set Aziraphale down on his side, onto a mattress, once dust-ridden, that instantly transformed into a high-end modern type once the angel’s body hit its surface.

He loosely tucked a blanket around the angel, snapping a glass of ice water to sit on the end table.

“If you get thirsty. Heard it’s good to be hydrated when sick.”

  
Aziraphale just nodded.

  
Crowley finally stepped back, pulled up a dusty armchair and slumped into it, sitting in a way that couldn’t possibly be comfortable, fingers drumming against the arms.

  
Aziraphale blinked, staring curiously.

  
“You should try and sleep, Angel.”

  
“I know. But you look quite uncomfortable.”

  
“M’fine. I need to keep an eye on you anyways.”

  
“Dear boy, if you’d like, you could watch me perfectly well over here.” Aziraphale patted the space behind him. “Plenty of room.”

  
Crowley blushed hard.

“Erk, I, uh,” He started to stand but seemingly stopped himself. “you sure? This isn’t the fever talking?”

  
“Completely positive.”

  
“Right.” Crowley stood and stiffly rounded the bed, slinking onto the mattress and taking his place next to the angel.

  
Aziraphale carefully rolled over, cautious of his back, to face Crowley, hand breaching the space between them.

“I also wanted to thank you.” Aziraphale sighed. “For caring for me.”

  
“Hey, none of that.” Crowley gave a small smile. “Thought I said you deserve it.”

  
“I know but…still.” Aziraphale’s eyes were watery as he scooched closer. “Thank you.”

  
Crowley reciprocated, lacing his fingers through Aziraphale’s.

  
Aziraphale gave his hand a squeeze.

  
“Of course.” Crowley answered.

He felt Aziraphale’s breathing slow, body curled and tucked into the blanket.

He planted a kiss atop his forehead.

“Sleep well, Angel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more to go, one more to go
> 
> quick question: for last installment, would u prefer a home invasion or abduction theme? btwn two different plot bunnies and not sure which to do (i can reveal which fandom if curious)


	32. Haunted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 31 - Whipping
> 
> It's almost Halloween in Broadchurch, and the two detectives are finishing a murder case. However, things might just be beginning for the two of them.
> 
> CW: Blood, gore, injury

_October 30th_

  
“Boo.”

  
Hardy’s weary eyes lifted, pulled away from the computer monitor for the first time that afternoon.

He stared over his glasses, blinked slowly.

  
“Did I scare you?” Ellie stood in the doorway, leaned against the frame with her arms crossed.

  
“You just here to bother me, Miller?”

  
“Grump.” She crossed from the door to the couch, which she made herself at home on. “Was just checking in. See how far you’ve gotten on your reports.”

  
Hardy blew out a breath, ran a hand down his face as he stared blearily.

“M’on page five of twelve.”

  
“Woo, progress.”

  
“On the _first_ document. Of four.”

  
“Ouch.” She grimaced.

  
“And given I started at…lunchtime? Three hours of solid work for five pages finished.”

He rubbed his eyes and shook his head.

  
“Who knew? Lot of paperwork for a murder.”

  
“Tack on an eighteen-year-old defendant, could say there’s a lot.”

  
“Right.” She paled considerably at the fact.

A whole line of suspects, all probable for the murder of a local schoolteacher.

In the end, it was a local boy, son of a farmer, named Daniel Byer.

Bashed her head in with a crowbar, tried to hide the body in a forest.

He cracked after several hours of intensive questioning.

Satisfying as it was to have a murderer in custody, the age of their culprit left only a bitter taste in her mouth.

She shook away the recollection; she’d spent too long on the case today, she needed to think of other things for a change, spare her sanity.

  
“So, put in a few more hours. Stop at six.” He noted.

  
“So…you’d stop right now then?”

  
“ _What_?” Hardy’s gaze shot towards the clock which, indeed, displayed the time as 5:48.

  
“Aren’t you a workaholic? Didn’t think that’d bother you.”

  
Hardy sunk into his chair, let his head dip back as he sighed.

“Promised Daiz I’d be home on time tonight. She wanted me to go over…over costumes. For Halloween.”

  
Ellie’s brow raised.

“You’ve got plans, then?”

  
“ _She_ has plans. Some party at her friend’s place.” Hardy waved the explanation. “Promised there wasn’t alcohol so couldn’t say no.”

  
“And you?”

Hardy shrugged, frowned.

“Stay at home. Read.”

  
“Pass out candy?”

  
“Miller, what five-year-old in their right mind would truck up that hill for tricks or treats?”

  
“I don’t know, a five-year-old on sweets? They’d probably leap a mountain for more.”

“The five-year-old might. The chaperone _wouldn’t_.”

  
Ellie smirked.

“Astute of you.”

  
Hardy’s frown lightened as he nodded.

“Could say it’s part of the job.”

  
“Could.” Ellie shifted in her seat. “Well, I was going to ask if you’d _want_ to have plans tomorrow night.”

  
He raised an eyebrow.

“Why?”

  
Ellie’s smirk returned to a thin frown.

“Some people don’t like being free on a holiday.”

  
“Not one of them.”

  
“And I was trying to be polite, _so_ , you’re invited to tag along.”

  
Hardy sighed, tapped a pen against the desk as he minimized the report in progress.

“What kind of plans?”

  
“A haunted house.”

  
Hardy raised an eyebrow.

  
“Tom’s idea, not mine. His mates said it’s the spookiest place in the county. I wanted to spend time with him one on one, and Beth agreed to take Fred with her and Lizzie. Don’t get much time to do that anymore.”

  
“Then why invite me?”

  
Ellie shrugged, crooked her mouth deep into the corner.

  
His other brow joined the first.

“You don’t like haunted houses?”

  
“It’s not that I _don’t_ , just – “Ellie sighed, rolled her head. “– more I don’t like dealing with _gore_ unless necessary. And those stupid haunted houses are nothing _but_ gore nowadays.”

  
“Kids need more than bedsheet ghosts.”

  
“And something tells me that if this house is the ‘spookiest in the county’, it’ll be all that – “She grimaced and waved about. “– _Hostel_ , _Jigsaw_ crap. The tripe the kids watch.”

  
“A horror purist, are ya?”

  
“Shut up.”

  
“Nothing wrong with it.” Hardy threw aside the pen. “So, need me for moral support then?”

  
“Oh, _don’t_ put it like that. Makes me sound like a child.”

  
“I don’t mind.”

  
Her expression softened.

“So…then you’ll go?”

He shrugged.

“Yeah.”

  
“Oh.”

  
“You’re disappointed now?”

  
“Well, no, just thought it’d have been harder than that.”

  
“Usually. But I’m saving the arm twisting you’d have to put in. Know eventually you’ll make me go.”

  
“Christ, you make it sound like a death sentence.”

She stood and straightened her blazer.

“Well, at least _try_ to have fun. And don’t fuss.”

  
“Aye-aye, Captain Miller.”

  
A wad of paper bopped him on the temple, tumbled to the floor.

“Littering, Miller!”

  
Another wad of paper.

  
“Miller!”

  
“Keep that up and I’ve got plenty of scrap paper, sir!”

  
As irksome as it was, Hardy had to fight back a smirk and a slew of chuckles as he tried to return to his work, get whatever he could get done done.

  
\--

  
_October 31 st_

  
Daisy had left last night costume in hand, ready to spend the weekend with her mom.

  
He knew this but waking up in the morning to a completely empty house still threw Hardy, at least at first.

As it always did.

  
He tugged on his tie, played with the knot as he set the kettle on, prepared his cup.

Throwing two pieces of bread in the toaster, he settled back, yawned deeply as the morning rays tried to coax him further awake.

  
He had, somehow, made it home last night, barely an hour late.

  
“ _Wow, impressive. Only an hour this time!_ ” His daughter had quipped.

  
He’d apologized profusely, of course, assured Daisy that she was his priority.

  
“ _Da, it’s alright. I know you’re busy. Besides, I messaged my friends. Got it narrowed down to three options_.”

  
He’d checked again, told her he loved her.

  
“ _Getting soppy, Da. Said it was okay._ ”

  
Finally, he dropped it.

And somehow managed to compromise on a costume with Daisy; something tasteful yet appropriate for her age.

He didn’t think it existed, but the final product looked good.

  
Honestly, he was amazed that it all came from her closet.

“ _Think it works better. They had a version at the shops, but it was pricy. And the fabric itched to hell._ ”

  
He decided at the time not to correct her use of profanity.

He was simply happy that she was excited.

  
Even now, years later, it still felt like decades since he’d seen her smile.

  
He had to remind himself that she was, by all accounts, a happy kid.

The stricken look had belonged to a far younger version of her, nearly half her age now.

Half her age now…

  
The toaster popped, startled him from his thoughts.

He plucked the toast out and buttered it lightly.

  
“ _How many years has it been? A few at least._ ”

  
The knife scraped across the toast.

  
“ _Sandbrook’s been closed for years too. It’s been over as long as it happened._ ”

  
He washed off the knife, put away the butter.

  
“ _Why does it still feel like yesterday then?_ ”

  
The kettle started its high-pitched whistle.

  
“ _Shouldn’t it feel like it’s…over?_ ”

  
The kettle rattled, pitched its whistle even higher.

He scrambled over, pulled the kettle from the burner and flicked off the fire.

Steam rose as he poured the water into the takeaway cup.

  
“ _Shouldn’t things be normal again?_ ”

  
…

“ _Were they ever normal to begin with?_ ”

  
Feeling his stomach and heart sink, he stared at his untouched toast, his steaming mug of tea.

He grabbed the tea and forewent his breakfast.

He could always pick something up later once his mind was diverted to other things.

  
Locking the door behind him, Hardy stuffed his free hand into his pocket, made sure he had his mobile.

He started the trek down his driveway, long and mixed with gravel, the soil crunching beneath his work shoes.

Despite his new pacemaker, he’d yet to receive permission to drive again.

Often, he’d carpool with Ellie, but lately with the weather being okay (a rarity for England), he’d taken to walking to work.

He supposed it was better for him anyway, and Daisy had been proud of him when he first started.

She’d smiled back then too.

  
He hastily shoved the memory aside.

He continued down the way, slowing only as he spotted lights ahead, red, orange, and white.

He frowned, picked up the pace.

Reaching the end, he spotted a van stalled in front of his driveway, blocking the entire entrance.

A girl, no older than seventeen, was pacing the side of the van, patting at her pockets, looking less than at ease.

  
Hardy slowed; brow furrowed as the realization that he’d certainly be late today set in.

“Need help?” He called.

  
The girl spun on her heel, hair messy and loose from its ponytail.

“Yeah! Yes, thank you. I’m so sorry, is this your driveway?”

  
“Aye, it is. What’s the problem?”

  
“Our car stalled out.” She patted the side door. “My mate _said_ he got it serviced but, well, no need to say he lied.”

  
“You call a tow truck?”

  
“My phone died. Forgot my charging cable.”

  
“Let me text my work and I’ll call one up for you.” He offered as he slipped his mobile out.

He kept his gaze down as he tapped out a message, directed to Ellie, the one work contact he had on hand.

“ _Going to be late to the office. Start on reports without me. Interview with witnesses for final evidence at 12, don’t miss it._ ”

He sent off the message and started looking up a towing company.

  
“Have to say, you look familiar. Aren’t you that detective? The one from the Latimer case?”

  
His heart froze, face grayed.

“Uh, yeah. One of them.”

He glanced upward.

“Why – “

  
He didn’t get a chance to finish his question, nor a chance to prepare himself as two other boys of similar age charged him.

  
They targeted his arms, wrenched them behind his back, sent his mobile clattering to the ground.

The girl followed suit, stretched out a piece of duct tape and slapped it across Hardy’s mouth before he could scream.

The other two boys held his wrists in a death grip, them shoving him along to the van, whose side door slid open, revealing a fourth companion.

He was unceremoniously shoved into the van, the door slamming shut behind him.

  
“Get the mobile. Shut it off.” Gruffed the largest of the boys.

  
“Already on it.” Said the girl as she turned the phone off, threw it to the other boy.

  
The teenager stuffed it in his pocket and gestured at the other two, the trio hopping back into the van.

With a rev and a stutter, they took off, leaving no trace of their presence other than two, shallow tire tracks at the end of Hardy’s driveway.

  
\--

  
Her mobile went off and she dug it from her purse.

  
“ _Going to be late to the office. Start on reports without me. Interview with witnesses for final evidence at 12, don’t miss it._ ”

  
She tapped out a quick response.

“ _K. Don’t take too long._ ”

  
She closed the app and slipped her mobile into her purse.

The file on the schoolteacher murder opened, she clicked on a document from yesterday and returned to her work.

Added some details, shored up the wording, examined the stated evidence for any holes or missing pieces.

  
Finished.

  
She opened a second.

Repeated the process.

Saved it.

  
Turned to a third document.

Repeated the process.

Finished.

  
Opened the second again.

…

She sat back and sighed, rubbed her eyes as she noted her empty mug.

She stood up, took her mug and left for the kitchen, making herself some tea.

She returned shortly after, tea and a snatched muffin in tow.

Returned to her work.

Eyes flitted to the on-screen clock for a moment.

  
…

She stopped and looked at the clock again.

“ _Two hours already?_ ”

Her lips thinned as she sat back again, her gaze drifting to an office.

An office which was still darkened.

She frowned; gaze drifted to her purse.

She reached for her mobile.

  
“Ellie.”

  
Her head snapped up.

  
DCI Jenkinson stood a foot away, arms crossed.

“Have a new witness wanting to give a statement. Have a minute?”

  
“Just do.”

  
“How about an hour or two?”

  
Ellie paused.

  
“Or more.”

“That sounds right. Yeah, think I do.”

Ellie set aside a pen, stood and followed Jenkinson, the mobile all but forgotten about.

  
\--

  
There was creaking above him before the sunlight hit his face, the first in many hours.

  
Hardy squinted, scrunched his face and groaned behind the duct tape.

He tried to pull himself upright, but his bindings kept him firmly on his side, partly curled into himself.

Still, despite it all, he schooled a glare blindly in the light’s direction.

  
One shadow, then five, split through the sunlight.

  
“He’s alright. Thank God.”

“Yeah, _thank God_ , you stupid son of a bitch.” The biggest shadow whacked one of the teens upside the head. “You know I keep my equipment down there, right? And you lot just tossed him down without looking?”

  
“We messed up, Mr. Byer. Cut us some slack.”

  
“Watch your tongue, Monty, or it won’t be slack that I’m cutting.”

The biggest shadow crouched low, stepped onto the first wooden step which groaned loudly at his presence.

  
Between the bright sunlight and the prolonged being in the dark, Hardy couldn’t make out the details of his main captor, but the name had tipped him off enough.

  
Mr. Byer grinned, free arm swinging as the other braced himself against the cellar’s door frame.

“Well, look who’s awake! Kids didn’t manage to kill you I see.”

  
Hardy grunted, pulled at his restraints and lifted his head.

  
Mr. Byer chuckled.

“Trussed up like a Christmas ham. Yes sir, that is the funniest thing I’ve seen this year.”

He patted at his shirt pocket and froze.

“Nuts. Left my phone inside. Guess I’ll get a snapshot later.”

  
One of the teens cleared their throat.

“Hey, so, when are you gonna pay us? We are getting paid, right?”

  
Mr. Byer’s smile faded, up-ticked once more but was so much colder.

“That’s all you lot care about your damn money.”

He turned to address the chorus.

“Weren’t you Daniel’s mates? Don’t you lot have any sort of loyalty to your friend?”

  
“I mean, yeah.” Spoke the girl. “But we still want to get paid. We could get in serious trouble for this.”

  
“You won’t. If you lot were careful, no one will know he’s gone ‘til it’s too late.”

Mr. Byer looked back at Hardy.

“Hear that, Detective?” He grinned. “We’re gonna have a fun evening.”

He leaned in ever closer, breath somehow hot despite not being close to Hardy.

“And when I’m through with you, you’ll _curse_ the day you arrested my son.” He growled.

He waved off the watching teens and stalked back up the stairs.

  
With a heave and a throw, the cellar door slammed shut, the lock clicking shut.

  
Leaving Hardy, once more, in the pitch blackness of the cellar, air musty and whatever he was about to endure uncertain, but he was sure it’d be painful.

  
\--

  
The day had sped by faster than expected and as Ellie finally lifted her gaze from her computer, it was six o’clock.

  
The witness’s testimony had been a disaster; the individual had given their statement, providing a contradictory timeline to every other piece of evidence she’d gathered, but suggested Daniel Byer’s innocence.

Hours of questioning and four aborted testimonies late, Ellie concluded that this witness was nothing more than a possible friend of Mr. Byer’s, trying to provide an alibi to spring their friend free.

Their testimony was dropped, and Ellie filed an obstruction of justice charge, arraigning them into custody.

  
She’d left that interview red-faced and worn out, and nearly took out her frustration on a stall door in the lady’s room.

She returned to her computer, too distracted to check on Hardy’s office, and spent the rest of the workday finishing her reports.

Seeing the clock hit six, she saved her final document and shut down her computer.

She smoothed some loose strands of hair off her face, leaned back and glanced over, finally, to Hardy’s office.

  
Which was dark.

Still?

  
Her stomach started to dip as she sat upright again, brow furrowed as she stared at the darkened windows.

If Hardy had come into the station, he would’ve joined her at the witness questioning, no doubt about that.

Meaning, most likely, he’d never come in.

“James,” she piped to a passing PC, on his way out. “have you seen DI Hardy today?”

  
James paused; lips thinned as he shook his head.

“Can’t say I have, mam. Then again, been out most of the day.” He stuffed a hand in his pocket. “Ain’t he usually with you?”

  
“Well, wouldn’t be asking if he was.” She winced. “That was rude, sorry.”

  
“Not offended. Should I get Jenkinson involved?”

  
“Think I’ll give him a call. Supposed to meet with him around now so I’ll check his house also.”

  
James nodded.

“Best of luck, mam.”

  
Ellie nodded her thanks as he left.

She pulled out her mobile, opened the chat log.

Her message from that morning was still the most recent.

Left unread.

She tapped the call button.

  
It rung.

Went straight to voicemail.

_Beep_.

  
“Hardy. Uh, this is Miller. You didn’t show up to work today. Bit concerning. Call me when you get this, okay?”

Her fingers drummed against the desk.

“Talk to you soon.”

She hung up, turned on her ringer.

And decided to wait.

  
…

  
There was a tap at her shoulder.

  
She spun around, eyes wide, a shout half-spilled from her lips.

  
“Mum! Just me.” Said Tom, hands up and open.

  
With a moment of hesitation, she sighed, shook her head with a deep frown.

“Tom, what was that for?”

  
“Wasn’t trying to scare you. Thought you heard me.” Tom shrugged. “I mean, I guess it’s Halloween so you can’t really get mad – “

  
“Right, okay, and no I didn’t hear you.” She rubbed her temples. “You’re ready to go then?”

She stood, grabbed her purse and coat, and started walking with Tom towards the car park.

“Need to stop by Hardy’s on the way out.”

  
“What? Why?”

“He didn’t come into work today. Want to make sure he’s okay _plus_ he’s coming with us.”

  
“You invited DI Hardy?” He groaned. “Why?”

  
“He won’t embarrass you, so don’t whinge.”

  
They piled into Ellie’s car and were soon in front of the Hardy residence.

Ellie parked, stepped out and walked up to Hardy’s front door, knocked loudly.

“Sir? You in?” She called as she tried to peek through the windows.

No lights were on.

There was no movement.

She checked the front door, tried to open it, but found it locked.

“No break in, then.”

  
“Mum? He not home?”

  
Ellie turned.

“Lights are off. Door is locked.”

  
“So, that’s a no.” Tom nodded at the driveway. “No car out. Maybe he left?”

  
“He doesn’t have a license, love.” Ellie started walking back.

  
“Could take a cab.”

  
“Where though?” Ellie’s face had only grayed further as she drew close.

  
Tom rolled the window back up, stepped out and held his mom by the arms gently.

“Sure he’s fine, Mum. You always said that he dips out to do who knows what. Doesn’t say a thing.”

  
“Hasn’t done it in years though.”

  
“Think he could do it though?”

  
She shook her head and sighed.

“You could be right. Just cause he hasn’t done it in some time…”

She smiled ruefully.

“Think after so many years, I’d have a clue where he’d go.”

  
“Still wouldn’t worry, Mum. He’s probably out with Daisy or something.”

Ellie blinked, tried to remember whether Daisy was with him this week.

“Suppose he could.”

She frowned.

“Not answering his phone though, that’s not normal.”

  
“Maybe his mobile died.”

  
“Hm.”

  
“Bet he’s fine, Mum.”

  
She sighed again, ran a hand down her face.

“…suppose he probably is.” She shook her head. “And if he knew I was worrying, he’d never let me hear the end of it.”

  
“Then, uh, maybe don’t?” Tom tapped the door. “But I mean, if you’re not up to the haunted house now, we could figure out something else. Just something to get your mind off it.”

  
She nodded, smile returning.

“Might be right.”

She climbed back into the car, shut the door.

“And, well, I promised you a haunted house, yeah? Nothing better than some scares to keep my mind off things.”

  
\--

  
Since Tom had heard about the house from his mates, and hadn’t bothered to give Ellie the address, preferring to use landmarks, Ellie hadn’t been sure what to expect.

  
First surprise came in that the haunted house wasn’t a house, but a barn.

A rather large barn that seemed out of place, almost more befitting of an American farm, complete with red paint.

Wheat fields surrounded it in all directions and there was already a line to enter.

She parked off on the side of the road and started making their way over.

  
The barn was covered in fake cobwebs (or possibly real ones) and plastic skeletons.

Strobe lights flashed different colors across its walls and canned screams echoed through the area.

The workers at the barn dressed as zombies and several of the attendees were dressed too.

Ellie looked at herself and felt very underdressed.

“Were we supposed to dress up, Tom?”

  
Tom simply shrugged.

“Didn’t have a costume. Don’t think they’ll care.”

  
“Would’ve been more fun.”

  
“Meh.”

  
Ellie rolled her eyes; there was her teenager again.

They walked to the end of the line, queued properly behind another family with teenagers.

Several costumed attendees, walking down the nicely marked “exit” queue, were laughing and cheering, hooting and hollering, quite a few talking loudly.

“That was _so_ good! Thought you were gonna shit yourself at that chainsaw zombie.”

  
“Oi! Was not! Just startled me.”

  
“The butcher scene was _so_ much scarier. That whipping bit was _intense_.”

  
“Oh yeah, that was good! The screams were almost lifelike. Spooky, man.”

  
“We’ll have to go next year for sure.”

  
Before she knew it, she was at the front of the line, paying ten pounds each to enter the barn, a fraction of the usual entry fee according to Tom.

“If that’s a fraction, those other houses better be worth it.” She mumbled.

  
Another worker led them along, pulled back a curtain and ushered them with a grin.

“You’re in for a _real_ scare, folks. Enjoy your visit.”

  
Tom led the way with Ellie following close behind.

The first room was the “set-up”, if Ellie were to describe it: various newspaper clippings plastered the walls, aged and crinkled, describing a ‘manic’ that captured people and tortured them to death on his property. They also described the police not noticing until he’d racked up around forty-odd victims, which made Ellie frown.

  
“Forty victims? Did the police just plug their ears and shut their eyes?”

  
“Just make-believe, Mum. Don’t overthink it.”

  
They walked past a television that played a pre-recorded bit featuring an old-timey reporter speaking about the maniac’s capture and the exhumation of the forty victims.

The telly flickered to another report about, days later, the maniac’s escape and the manhunt that ensued.

A chainsaw cut through the fuzz of the telly, revved seemingly behind Ellie and Tom, caused her to jump and yelp.

A canned giggle echoed through the room and turned her pink.

  
Tom snickered.

  
“ _Don’t_ start, Thomas Miller.”

  
The next room was far danker, the air filled with something stale and foul, water dripping against rusted pipes.

Chains swung in the breeze and what lighting existed was barely enough to let Ellie see where to go, much less whether there were costumed actors waiting to jump and scare them.

Her foot grazed something heavy and she looked down.

She frowned and tutted at the fake arm, doused with ketchup, that laid in a puddle.

“I think the maniac’s this way.”

  
“Are real murderers this sloppy, Mum?” He smirked.

  
“Ah, you’d be surprised. Nothing I’ve seen but I’ve _heard_. It can be rather ridiculous – “

  
Their path was cut off, one of said actors jumping out in a ghastly mask, swinging a fake butcher knife and cackling gleefully.

“OH, FOR FUCK’S – “Ellie yelped before groaning and pushing ahead.

  
The actor sneered and waved their weapon, laughing and crowing.

  
“Yes, yes, get your jollies in, you got me!”

  
Tom couldn’t hold back his laughter that time.

  
The two rounded a corner and slipped through the metal, open door, entering a far colder scene with flickering lights.

Fake corpses hung from the ceiling, numbering in the near dozen, all splashed with fake blood and swaying gently, bumping together as Ellie and Tom pushed through.

The sound of clashing and scraping metal echoed in the room, thinning out as they exited the forest of bodies, coming upon the only clearing, the lights directing their attention to the left.

There was a door, rusted and shut, that framed another corpse, the most detailed of the lot.

  
He had hair, for one.

Brown hair, though it was hard to see in the lighting.

He was blindfolded and gagged and seemed to sway more on his own.

His torso was littered with bruises and cuts.

Most grisly, however, was the blood that dripped at a slow rhythm onto the floor below him, forming shallow puddles.

  
“Woah. This one looks almost real.” Tom whispered.

  
Ellie swallowed and nodded.

She’d answer, but something about this stage body seemed different.

She tried to step closer to examine him when the door behind the corpse slammed open.

  
Another actor, tall and dressed in a butcher’s outfit, lumbered forward, face obscured by a hideous mask, firmly gripping a long, blood-soaked whip.

The soundtrack peaked, lights flashing on and off at quick intervals, brighter than before.

The actor cracked the whip, growled and roared at Ellie and Tom, before laying into the hanging corpse.

  
The first strike lashed across his back and the body _jerked_ , arched away from the whip to no avail, a strangled cry slipping free.

The next strikes came in quick succession, ripping skin and sending blood splattering in all directions, the body groaning and screaming as it thrashed at its chains.

Its shivering increased on the third and fourth, back still arching to evade the whip’s perimeter, body swinging towards Ellie and Tom.

  
“GO! LEAVE!” bellowed the masked actor.

  
Tom yanked at Ellie’s arm, but she remained frozen in place.

  
The actor whipped at the body and, again, it swung forward.

The chest was close enough now that Ellie could discern details, like the number of bruises that marred his ribs and stomach.

As well as a prominent scar, right down the center of his chest.

A pacemaker scar.

  
Ellie’s face drained.

“Hardy – “

  
Before she could do anything more, she was nearly dragged away by Tom into the next scene.

“T-That was,” He panted. “that was _intense_. I-I mean…wow, that was scary. My mates weren’t kidding about this place.”

Catching his breath, he finally took a good look at his mum.

“You okay, Mum?”

Ellie, for her part, still looked very gray.

She shook her head, clarity snapping back, eyes darting to meet her son’s.

“You have your mobile with you?”

  
“Well, yeah. Why – “

  
“Call 999. _Now_. Stay right here and don’t leave.”

  
“Mum – “

  
“ _Now_ , Tom!”

  
“I have to tell them what’s wrong!”

  
“T-The person being whipped. It’s Hardy. I’m going to get him.”

  
“Wh – Mum, i-it’s all fake. You know that. I-It can’t be – “

  
But Ellie had already dipped back into the previous scene.

She wove past the various hanging corpses, hid behind one as she watched the masked actor circle Hardy, whip sliding across the blood-stained floor.

She watched as he adjusted the gag, slapped Hardy across the face and chuckle, his back to her.

She didn’t wait.

She lunged forward and kicked out the actor’s knee.

  
The man swore and fell to his knees, then fell to the ground as Ellie socked him in the temple, sending him unconscious just as the next visitors entered the room.

  
“Wh- Woah! Woah, lady! Or…is this part of the – “spoke the attendee.

  
Ellie ignored them as she strained for the gag, narrowly managing to slip it from Hardy’s mouth.

“Sir! Hardy! Hardy, please, talk to me.”

  
Hardy gasped, panted, head swiveling as he tried to look around.

  
“It’s me. I-It’s Miller. I’m going to get you down.”

She searched for a pulley or rope, finding nothing amidst the stage dressing.

Before she could turn and search the other side, the attendee had seemingly caught on as he reached above Hardy and started wrestling with the chains.

Ellie circled back around, helping the man release Hardy and bring him to the ground, eyes finally catching on his back.

  
She nearly became sick.

His back was shredded, more blood than skin, glistening and wet and so painful looking, some of the lash marks ghosting the base of his neck.

Safely on the ground, Ellie finally undid his blindfold, allowed the offending material to fall into the blood pools.

She walked around, thanked the man, and tilted Hardy’s chin.

“Sir? Are you still with me?”

  
Hardy eyes, dulled and unfocused, lazily drifted back to her, so exhausted and drained.

He could only groan, uttering a weak whimper.

  
“It’s okay. You’re okay. Tom’s calling an ambulance. Stay with me.”

  
Hardy blinked, eyes unfocused once more as his eyelids drifted shut.

  
“Hey! No! No, don’t fall asleep, sir -!”

Her words fell on deaf ears as he slumped into her arms, fully unconscious.

She couldn’t blame him, but still panicked as her fingers searched for his pulse.

She sighed in relief as it held steady and, in return, she held him carefully, wary of the many bruises.

The other attendee draped a coat around her.

She nodded her thanks and stayed there, waiting for the ambulance to arrive.

  
\--

  
It took only minutes for an ambulance and cop cars to arrive, and only minutes to subsequently shut down the haunted barn.

  
Countless attendees clung to the roadside by the cars, watching from a distance as uniforms cycled in and out, some with workers cuffed and being escorted to the cars.

  
Ellie and Tom lingered by the ambulance as paramedics wheeled Hardy out on a stretcher.

They had laid him on his side, ruined back thankfully obscured from Tom’s eyes.

  
He’d started to stir, eyes lifting as they wheeled him close to Ellie.

  
“Hey, sir. How’re you feeling?” She greeted with a small smile.

  
He blinked slowly and grunted.

“Fantastic.” He winced as a paramedic applied gauze to a heavily bleeding lash. “Sorry I missed our outing.”

  
“Don’t even start.”

  
“Am though.” His gaze drifted to Tom. “Sorry about all this, lad.”

  
Tom grimaced.

“S’not your fault.” He muttered as he scuffed his feet. “Couldn’t be.”

  
“What’s your costume?”

  
“Don’t have one.”

  
“Next year then.”

  
Tom nodded, movement jerky and unnatural, face very gray in complexion.

“Yeah.”

  
Ellie gave her son a hug.

“We’ll meet you at the hospital. Don’t think they’ll let us ride with you.”

Hardy shook his head, eyes growing distant once more as they drifted to her.

“Was grabbed by some teens paid off by Daniel Byer’s father.”

Ellie paled.

“Uniforms got everyone; I think. Was he -?”

  
He took a labored breath.

“The one with the whip. Yeah.”

He blinked slowly.

“Please, stay with someone else tonight.”

  
“You’re that worried.”

  
“I don’t want you,” His eyes flitted to Tom. “or your boys to get hurt, and I don’t know how many people he has working for him.”

  
She swallowed, nodded.

“Okay. Yeah. I’ll, uh, call Luce and ask to stay with her.”

  
He nodded and let his eyes close again.

“Good. Good.”

At that, the paramedics wheeled him into the ambulance, the doors slamming shut.

  
Ellie watched as the ambulance sped off, sirens blaring and lights flashing.

She shivered, swallowed thickly as she tucked her arms around herself.

Her attention returned to her son, whose gaze fixed on the ground, distant and hollow.

“Tom? Alright, love?”

  
Tom’s gaze snapped up and he nodded.

“Yeah. Alright.”

  
She gave him another hug.

“He’ll be okay. Be long, but he’ll recover.”

  
“Yeah.”

Tom buried his hands in his pockets.

“You were right. He was in trouble. Shouldn’t have stopped you from looking for him.”

  
Ellie’s face wilted.

“Oh, love,” she turned him to face her. “this isn’t your fault.”

  
“If I hadn’t been a git, could’ve found him faster. Wouldn’t be as hurt.”

  
She pulled him into a tight hug.

“Neither of us knew, Tom. We did what we thought made sense at the time. We can’t stop everything bad from happening.”

  
“I _know_.” Tom sniffed and cleared his throat. “Still feel like a bastard though.”

  
Ellie ignored her son’s profanity as she gave him a squeeze.

“I know for a fact that Hardy doesn’t blame you, either of us, for this.”

She rolled her eyes.

“You heard him. He was blaming _himself_ for this whole mess.”

  
“He does that a lot, doesn’t he?”

“Lord, _yes_ , he does.” She sighed. “Especially when it’s nowhere near his fault.”

  
Tom’s face only grew grayer.

“Think he’s right? That some…assholes might come after us? You?”

  
Ellie took a sharp breath.

“Don’t know, but we’ll do what we can. Just have to put up with your aunt for a day or two. Or three.”

  
“Are you scared, Mum?”

  
She stilled.

“…a little, love.”

  
Tom wrapped his arms around and hugged.

“Love you, Mum.”

  
She sighed and returned his hug.

“Love you so much.”

  
Tom’s eyes drifted back to the ground as he hummed.

“Think I want to get Hardy some crisps. Could we make a stop?”

  
Ellie thought.

“I don’t think he eats salty things, love.”

  
“Oh. Uh, well, is there something he _would_ like and could eat?”

  
Ellie smiled.

“So thoughtful, aren’t ya? We’ll figure it out on the way over.”

  
They loaded themselves into the car and started off down the road, the lights of the police cars fading into the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy halloween everyone
> 
> thx for stciking w/ this for a verrrrry long whumptober, now to finally write other things lol


End file.
